


One Week

by Shiraume



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Angst and Feels, Future Fic, Haunting, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiraume/pseuds/Shiraume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Tuesday morning, Fuji finds an unexpected (and uninvited) guest in his kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> This story represents an exception in a lot of ways. For starters it was written as a surprise project during NaNoWriMo 2015, although I tend to stick to my original plans when it comes to NaNoWriMo. And this is a dated story, taking place (mostly) on the dates I wrote the actual story itself. And therefore, although I strongly prefer to let stories sit for a while after writing them so I can be fresher and more objective when I edit, I’m rushing to get this one released. Hopefully I’ll be able to stick to the schedule exactly – this is actually in honor of Fuji’s birthday 2016, since we have a February 29th this year.
> 
> This story’s title was the bane of my existence for the last few weeks. I tend to have at least a working title for every project. This story’s working title was “Untitled,” which tells you just how much trouble I had coming up with any sort of title at all. And after about three dozens of words I considered, and half a dozen title candidates that were really out there, I’m back to the most unimaginative title possible, for which I barely survived my beta’s wrath. This is probably going to be one of those stories whose title I dislike but can’t think of anything better either.
> 
> The story was written from November 9, 2015 to November 16, 2015. The first chapter takes place on Tuesday, November 10, 2015. The last chapter takes place on Monday, November 16, 2015.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all resemblance to a certain song of the same title...is totally all in your head. :P Also, please note I have no earthly CLUE on actual geography of Japan period, let alone detailed one of Shinjuku area. Let’s all pretend it makes sense somehow, yes?

_**One Week** _

[Released Tuesday, January 19, 2016]

_Chapter 1. Tuesday_

Fuji Syuusuke considers himself a reasonably easygoing person. He’s always had a good grasp of common sense and logic, and while imaginative, he doesn’t often allow his flights of fancy to get away from him. Which is why, when he finds himself face to face with a floating feetless apparition that unceremoniously appears in his kitchen on Tuesday, he feels justified in feeling – just a little bit – put upon.

“Well,” Fuji says, conversational. “This is awkward.”

“What is this place?” demands the apparition. “How did I get here?”

Rather imperious for someone who is intruding, supernatural affiliation or no, Fuji thinks. Still, if one found himself a disembodied spirit in someone else’s kitchen with no recollection of how any of this came to be, Fuji supposes one could be forgiven some impatience. So he says helpfully, “You’re in my kitchen.” That doesn’t seem to reassure the apparition very much, so he adds, “In an apartment in Tokyo, twenty minutes’ walk from the Shinjuku Station. What’s the last thing you remember?”

The apparition frowns. “I...” With an impatient shake of his head, the apparition pins him with a sharp brown gaze. “What day is it today?”

“November 10, 2015. Tuesday...” Fuji pauses to look at the kitchen clock. “...Seven forty-two in the morning. What brings you here, anyway?”

The frown deepens. “I don’t know.” Then, after a pause, the apparition asks, more hesitantly: “Who are you?”

Fuji ignores that question. “Do you at least remember who you are?”

This time, the pause is longer. “No.”

“Great,” Fuji sighs. “Look, I have to get to work. If you’re still around when I get home, we’ll sort this out then. Have a good day.”

Before the apparition can protest, he walks out of the kitchen and heads straight to the bathroom. What little appetite he’d had this morning is gone, and he really is running behind the schedule now. He lets the water run for five seconds and steps under the spray.

“It’s not fair of you to haunt _me_ of all people, anyway,” Fuji murmurs, and reaches for the shampoo.

~*~*~*~

The workday is long and terrible, even by his standards. By the time Fuji gets home, he is in no fit mood to deal with impertinent interlopers, disincorporated or otherwise.

The apparition looks exactly as it had in the morning, although before Fuji flips on the kitchen light, it looks almost solid in the darkness. Still no feet, however; Fuji swallows a sigh and switches on the light.

Under the glare of the overhead light, the apparition looks more faded. Or maybe it’s the slightly sheepish expression the apparition wears. “I can’t seem to leave,” it offers.

“The kitchen? Or my apartment?” Fuji tosses over his shoulder as he opens the refrigerator.

“The kitchen,” it clarifies, and the mixture of wariness and resignation makes Fuji turn around and face it. “I seem to be bound to this place.” Then, the piercing regard in the brown eyes returns in full force. “I know you.”

It is not a quite a question. But it isn’t interrogation, either. Fuji sighs, and relents. “For you to have ended up here of all places, the experience must have been traumatic. Though, if you were going for an old acquaintance, I’m sure there were better choices.”

“I came here for a reason.”

“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” Fuji isn’t actually all that curious. But it’s kind of fun watching the apparition off-balance. And it _is_ off balance. He can tell.

“I’m a...” A slight pause, almost unnoticeable, then the apparition continues. “...Disembodied spirit. Spirits don’t haunt random places. Did I die here?”

“What? No!” Fuji is actually startled enough that his answer is completely honest and unfiltered. “For your information, we haven’t even seen each other for the last ten years. So no, whatever happened to you, it had nothing to do with me.”

The apparition actually looks pleased. “I thought so. If I had, this place would have more negative feelings associated to it.” It looks around the kitchen with a distinct air of having done it dozens of times. “It doesn’t feel repulsive, to be here. I think I have a good reason to come here.”

He hasn’t had nearly enough tea to deal with inquisitive but analytical unearthly intruders, Fuji decides, and makes himself a pot of soothing chamomile. With honey. It’s one of his particular favorites that his mother used to make for him. The apparition watches him in silence, and waits politely (for a spirit) until he finishes the first cup.

“Green tea. I think I prefer that.”

Fuji raises an eyebrow at the comment. “I’d offer you some, but I don’t think you’re exactly in condition to enjoy it.”

“No.” The apparition doesn’t quite lean on the counter, but stands (floats?) close enough so its pose looks deceptively casual. “You know me.”

“In the literal sense? Or as in a personal acquaintance?” Fuji smiles, but knows it isn’t a nice one. “Or in the Biblical sense?”

The apparition remains annoyingly unperturbed. “You already said old acquaintance, so the first two are presumably correct. I don’t remember anything, so even if you were to tell me the last is also true, I wouldn’t have a way to confirm.”

Fuji laughs despite himself. “You know, I think most spirits in your position would be more curious about themselves than you are.”

The apparition considers it. “Am I very different from the person you know – knew?”

“No,” Fuji admits. The way the apparition corrected itself – it makes everything seem final. Irrevocable. “I would have preferred never to know you this way, I think.”

There is a tiny quirk of mouth that might pass for a smile. “Is that your way of saying you regret my fate?”

Fuji finds himself on his feet before he quite realizes it. “You know what? I just had a rather long and terrible day at work. I think I’ll turn in early.”

“If you say.”

There is no discernible hint of accusation or even irony in the calm voice. But that makes him even more irritated. “Look, I don’t owe you any answers,” he snaps.

“No, you don’t.” The apparition doesn’t sigh, because the person it was before – he never would have. He was never that transparent about his feelings. “I cannot leave this place. And I’ve tried.” Fuji takes in a quick breath. He knows it’s telling the truth. It probably tried all day, unceasing, untiring, just as it would have in life. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for imposing. Good night.”

Fuji releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. And with it, he feels both the tension and the irritation drain away. For an irrational moment he wishes he could hold on to the irritation, but dismisses the thought. “Fuji,” he says softly. “My name is Fuji.”

“Fuji,” it repeats. “Thank you. I would return the courtesy if I could.”

Fuji cannot help another short laugh. “Ask me tomorrow.”

“And you will answer?”

“Maybe,” Fuji replies, and the smile he feels tugging at his lips feels genuine for the first time since the morning.

“I thought so.” The apparition doesn’t sound terribly vexed. “Good night, Fuji.”

“Good night.”


	2. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Pochi” is a common name for a pet, kind of like “Fido” for a dog.

[Released Wednesday, January 20, 2016]

_Chapter 2. Wednesday_

The next morning, Fuji walks into his kitchen freshly showered and dressed, and finds the apparition staring at the coffeemaker with a thoughtful expression.

“Good morning,” Fuji offers neutrally.

“Good morning, Fuji,” the apparition answers. “I cannot touch anything.” 

“That’s the way it goes for spirits, usually.” Fuji starts on a simple breakfast of toast and eggs. He took a little longer in the shower than usual, so he doesn’t have time for anything more. “What did you want to do?”

“I wanted to start the coffeemaker.”

“Why? You never used to drink it,” Fuji says absently while tipping fried eggs on a plate next to slices of bread. Then he realizes what he just said, and feels a stab of irritation born of panic.

The apparition doesn’t notice. “You do. Your coffeemaker is used regularly.”

“You wanted to start the coffee for me?”

“Yes.”

Fuji walks over to put scoops of coffee grinds and water in the coffeemaker, and presses the start button. “I usually set it on a timer. I forgot last night.” Then, self-consciously he adds, “Thank you. It’s the thought that counts.”

This is the first time he’s standing so close to the apparition. Who is a head taller than Fuji is. Hopefully, Fuji muses to himself, it’s because of disembodied spirits’ tendency to float off the ground. Otherwise it would be plain irksome. He tries to keep a clinical outlook as he observes the apparition. Remarkably lifelike for all its transparency. Even the glasses are the same. The only odd thing is how the spirit is dressed. Slacks and a V-neck sweater with a button-down shirt underneath. He would have expected a polo shirt and tennis shorts. Or maybe sweatpants. Some variation of workout clothes. But no, the outfit looks like something more suited for a stroll out somewhere. In life, if they had ever made plans to meet and catch up, maybe he would have come dressed like this.

Fuji swallows quickly, ignoring the knot of tightness in his chest, and busies himself with the coffee. The first sip is too hot even for him, but he doesn’t even wince at the burn. The spirit is still watching him with an unnerving intensity, but he can’t find anything to say.

His phone chimes, warning him he has ten minutes before he has to leave. He finishes the coffee and rest of his breakfast in record time. When he rushes out of the house, it feels only a little like an escape. And for once, he finds the morning commute rush welcome.

~*~*~*~

Fuji manages to not remember the apparition waiting in his kitchen for better part of the day. And it’s his grocery day today. Because of his busy schedule, shopping for groceries every evening is impossible. He usually gets most of the things he needs on Sundays, and picks up more on Wednesdays so he has fresh fruits and vegetables in his fridge all week. If his grocery items have several unusual additions today, well, he’s entitled his whims.

It’s a chilly evening in November, and hours past sunset when he finally returns to his apartment. He heads straight to the kitchen and switches on the light. For a split second as the light floods the kitchen, he thinks he sees a flicker of relief on the apparition’s otherwise expressionless face.

“I’m home,” he says, dropping the grocery bags on the kitchen table.

“Welcome home.” The apparition moves to one side, so when Fuji starts putting his grocery items away, at least he doesn’t have to go _through_ the other. Afterward, Fuji considers a few recipes before choosing vegetable stir fry for dinner. His mother makes the sauce for it from scratch, but he has neither her expertise nor time for that, so his mother keeps him stocked with a handful of homemade sauces. The spirit watches him cook, intent and focused, and this distracts him enough to miscalculate the portion. He ends up making enough for two people.

“You’re good at that.”

“What, cooking? After you live on your own for a few years, you get the hang of it.” He can always pack up some of it for a homemade lunch tomorrow, he decides. Besides, he’s outdone himself this time. The baby corn and carrots have texture that would make even his mother proud.

“How long have you lived on your own?”

“Hmm. Ever since I started college, so seven years, I think? Although, to be fair, when I was in college I relied more on school’s dining halls than my own kitchen.”

The apparition nods. Fuji finishes his dinner and puts the dishes in the sink. He chooses peppermint tea for the evening, and settles down at the table again. “That’s it? I thought your first question of the day would be your name. Something about you.”

The sight of the apparition standing with back to the kitchen counter, close enough to give the illusion of leaning, is a weirdly familiar sight now. The apparition considers his question, then meets his eyes. “My name doesn’t feel very important. In my current state, there is only I. And you. I do not need a particular way to refer to myself.”

“What a weird answer,” Fuji murmurs, but not with any real censure. “What about the way I refer to you, then?”

“That’s up to you.” The apparition’s voice is steady, sure. “I’m a disembodied spirit confined to your kitchen. If you decided I don’t exist, I cannot stop you.”

“That is true.” Fuji keeps his voice neutral. “Well, for the time being, I think I will call you Tezuka.”

“Ah.”

“You’re not going to ask if that’s your real name?”

Tezuka doesn’t quite shrug. “No.”

“I should have told you your name is Pochi,” Fuji says, and feels a smile wrap around his words.

Tezuka doesn’t even blink. “It’s how you refer to me. That’s more important than what it says.”

“I see.” Fuji gets up to do his dishes in silence. After finishing, he hesitates briefly, then says, almost experimentally, “Good night, Tezuka.”

“Good night, Fuji,” Tezuka replies.


	3. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The building references used for this story are all designed by the real-life architect Tezuka Takaharu, whom I totally did not choose for his name, why do you ask? The kindergarten mentioned in this chapter is the Fuji Kindergarten, also by Tezuka Takaharu, where again all nominal similarities are entirely coincidental. Somewhat.
> 
> Cost of renovation of a high-rise mentioned in this chapter is probably (possibly wildly) inaccurate. Three billion yen would be about 25 million US dollars (I used US high-rise building renovation cost as reference). Not only that, I have no earthly clue how architectural firms work in real life. Therefore, my lovely readers, please remember to check your disbelief at the entrance and leave it suspended until your exit. Thank you for your cooperation. ♥

[Released Thursday, January 28, 2016]

_Chapter 3. Thursday_

By Thursday morning, waking up, showering, and coming to the kitchen to eat with an apparition hovering feels normal. Fuji is halfway through his breakfast when a thought occurs to him.

“Do you sleep after I go to bed?”

Tezuka freezes. Well, sort of. He kind of goes dimmer, like a flicker of a light bulb, which Fuji guesses may be the spectral way of freezing. Still, Tezuka doesn’t equivocate. “No. I can put myself in a state of blankness for a period of time, but it’s not the same thing as sleeping.”

Fuji likes to think his kitchen is reasonably well-furnished and cozy. He has done his level best to make it feel homely. But it is still five steps in every direction before one hits the wall. It isn’t, objectively speaking, a lot of space. And if one must be awake every hour of the day, meditative state or not, he is surprised the current arrangement hasn’t driven Tezuka insane. Or maybe spirits aren’t bothered by boredom?

“It’d be nice if you could get out, huh?”

Tezuka doesn’t quite catch his meaning. “Sorry to take over your kitchen.”

“Not what I meant,” Fuji says, finishing his food. “It’s not like you take up physical space. I meant, it’d be nice if you could at least move around a bit. Maybe go hang out in the living room instead. I have more decorations there. And better furniture.”

The alarm chimes. Ten minutes. He dumps the dishes in the sink and runs water through, and races through the rest of his morning routine.

He barely remembers to wish Tezuka a good day before hurrying out the door.

~*~*~*~

Fuji can’t quite concentrate at work all morning. Thursday. Today is Thursday. Third day of their odd cohabitation, if it can be called that. Maybe he should figure out a long term solution to their current predicament. He can hardly spend his life being haunted, and being trapped in one tiny space can’t possibly be what Tezuka wants for the rest of eternity, either. Usually, ghosts leave if whatever is holding them tethered to the living world is satisfied, right? What could possibly have held back Tezuka, someone who doesn’t seem like he’d ever hold regrets?

There is always tennis, he supposes, but then again, if that really was the reason, he rather thinks Tezuka would have ended up haunting a tennis court, not his kitchen.

“Fuji-kun? How’s your floor plan going for the Gateau Chocolat Shibuya branch—”

“I think I will need tomorrow off. And Saturday.”

Maeda, the head of their marketing department, blinks in surprise. “Um. What?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll finish this one today.” Fuji smiles at him winningly, gesturing at the half-finished floor plan on his computer screen.

“Yes, but what about the Akai project? You haven’t even started on it and we need at least a concept by the end of this week. That’s a major project, Director Ishihara is placing a lot of trust in you, putting you in charge of that one, and you do realize it’s highly unusual for someone as young as you managing a big project like that—”

Fuji’s smile turns even brighter. Maeda’s nervously verbose manner is a good cover for the chillingly strategic mind underneath. Most clients don’t catch on to the fact they have been distracted and thoroughly outmaneuvered by the homely, awkwardly chattering man until after they sign the contract. Or never, as is more often the case. But Maeda actually likes him, and as Fuji expects, trails off with a resigned sigh.

“...Fine. But make sure you have at least the preliminary concept ready for the Akai project. We’re still competitively pitching, remember? That one isn’t in the bag until the client commits, and they’ve got three other companies pitching for it. It’s a three billion project at least, expected to climb, so we definitely want to be bagging this one, okay?”

“Sure.” Fuji taps a finger on his desktop toy – a random decision-maker, next to miniature versions of a Strandbeest and a trebuchet – and hums. “I should have something by this afternoon. I’ll talk to Director Ishihara after. I have an idea that might work.”

“...This isn’t going to be another one of your popsicle sticks thing, is it?” Maeda ventures hesitantly.

Fuji waves him off. “That was just a preliminary sketch. In 3-D. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Maeda says warily. “You know, you had _that_ finished in a day and half. And technically speaking, that kindergarten was much larger and far more complex than Gateau Chocolat.”

“I liked the kindergarten a lot,” Fuji answers, wistful. He really had. And so had their client. That was one of the projects Fuji managed which got a huge buzz in the media. The name of the kindergarten was a coincidence, but the client was so happy with the finished product that he joked he’d named it after its chief architect.

Maeda gives him a rueful look, shaking his head. “Well, we can’t work on new age kindergartens all the time. But – seriously, you really will have something for the Akai project by end of the day?”

“Yes. Don’t worry.”

Maeda sighs. “Fine.” A pause, then Maeda looks around Fuji’s desk – eerily clean of clutter for an architect – with dismay. “You know, normal architects have pieces of model and Lego blocks and sheets of paper falling off their desk and not, you know, a dozen desktop toys. Try not to get any sand on your next model, okay?”

Fuji chuckles. “I don’t know. I thought it added little something to the SG model.”

Maeda coughs. “Only because you told the client it was a mini zen garden. You didn’t tell them you’d accidentally spilled sand from your miniature sandbox.”

“The sandbox relaxes me,” Fuji returns blithely. “I think it must relax whoever actually visits the rooftop of the SG Kyuushuu branch nowadays, don’t you?”

Maeda just shakes his head. “Yeah, okay. Just come up with something I can sell, alright?”

“Will do. Now excuse me, I’ve got two projects to wrap up today.”

“Only you, Fuji-kun,” Maeda says over his shoulder, already walking away.

Fuji dislikes forcing his attention to linger in a place it doesn’t want to go, but he _is_ pretty good at focusing when he has a goal in mind. He does indeed finish a preliminary concept for the Akai project, after which he promptly marches to the creative director’s desk to explain it, then asks for a leave of absence in the same breath. Director Ishihara looks bewildered at the sudden request, but acquiesces. Fuji does ask for days off more often than almost anyone else in their department, but he also gets more work done than anyone else. By now, the entire company is used to his eccentricities. Besides, the concept is just unique and intriguing enough that Fuji is pretty sure none of their competitors will top that one.

Not his best work, he thinks to himself ruefully as he returns to his desk to finish the floor plan for Gateau Chocolat Shibuya branch, but not every project fires up his imagination to the same degree. Besides, the Akai project is merely for renovation of an office building that doesn’t actually need renovation for any reason but the aesthetics. He’d liked the current building for the sheer functional efficiency of its design, balanced with sparse beauty just enough to render it a statement unto itself. But most clients who come to their company want something more attention-catching.

He does leave later than usual that day, but Gateau Chocolat’s floor plan is finished and uploaded to the creative director and marketing director’s intranet workspace. By the time he is at the train station, he is humming under his breath. Two days. Three, counting Sunday. He should have enough time to figure out _something_ about his current domestic situation.

~*~*~*~

“Welcome home, Fuji.”

Fuji pauses at the foyer in the middle of taking off his shoes. “Tezuka. What—” He stops, staring at the apparition currently standing (hovering?) near the sofa as if he’d just gotten up to greet him. “I thought you couldn’t leave the kitchen?”

“I couldn’t before.” Tezuka sounds oddly untroubled for a spirit that spent three days trapped in a small kitchen. “After you went to work, I considered what you said about going to the living room. I tried.” Tezuka gave another one of his not-quite shrugs. “I managed to make it here.”

Fuji finishes toeing off his shoes and puts on slippers. “So, had a fun day exploring the house? Can you go outside now?”

“No,” Tezuka says, and there is a rueful tilt to his mouth. “It seems I am limited to the kitchen and the living room for the moment.” Then, in a more reserved tone, he offers, “Your living room is comfortable. Harmonious.”

It pleases him because that is exactly what he wanted when he furnished it, carefully selecting the sofa, the drapes, the rug, and every piece of decoration. Most people just tell him his living room is nice. Or unique, if they’re trying to get on his good side. Only his little brother had the temerity to tell him it’s boring.

This is the space where he comes to relax and revitalize himself. He doesn’t need his living room to be exciting. He just needs it to be in harmony, in tune.

“Heh,” Fuji says, smiling. “I must have gotten something right. That’s almost a praise coming from you.”

“It’s meant to be a praise,” Tezuka counters, matter-of-fact. “You’re late today.”

Despite every intention to go hop in the shower first, Fuji finds himself dropping on the sofa with a soft sound. “Yes. I had some work to finish up.”

“You don’t seem the type to fall behind.”

Fuji laughs. “No. I wanted the next two days off.”

“You’ll be staying home?”

The question is perfectly neutral. But a specter or not, Tezuka’s face cannot quite mask the expression of – relief? gladness? – in his eyes. So his otherworldly visitor isn’t as unperturbed by all this as he pretends to be. The thought is reassuring. Or maybe worrying. Fuji isn’t sure which.

“Yes. I thought we should figure this out.”

“My being here.”

“Yes, exactly.” Fuji gestures for Tezuka to sit. Or at least stop hovering. Tezuka is tall, and towers over Fuji when he’s standing before the sofa like that. Tezuka folds himself cross-legged on the floor instead, next to the coffee table, which is really weird to look at given the apparition has limbs, but no feet. “Can you sit on the sofa? Or that chair?”

The chair Fuji points to is a wooden rocking chair with cushions. Tezuka gives it a dubious look. “I didn’t have much success with the sofa at first,” he offers. “It took me a while to sit and not go through the seat. I can try.” Before Fuji can say anything, he sort of flows over to the rocking chair and gingerly lowers himself on it. Although Tezuka manage a decent perch, he doesn’t look comfortable.

“Or sit anywhere you like,” Fuji says with a sigh. “Sorry, I didn’t think about what it’s like being incorporeal and trying to negotiate solid objects.”

“It’s fine.” Tezuka still doesn’t move an inch, sitting motionless and rigid on furnishing meant for comfort. Fuji shakes his head, but lets it go. “You want to figure out how to send me on.”

It’s not a question this time. “I don’t think you’d want to spend the rest of your afterlife or whatever it is trapped in my kitchen,” Fuji replies blandly. “Well, kitchen and living room, now.”

“No.” There is a silence, short but cutting. “And you don’t want me intruding in your life any longer than I have already.”

Fuji raises his eyes to see the tight set of Tezuka’s mouth, and his own mouth opens soundlessly. Technically, this is true. Fuji keeps a small apartment designed for only one person, and that is largely on purpose. For him, his apartment is a deeply personal space, not just a dwelling. He dislikes uninvited guests in his sanctuary, supernatural or otherwise.

But that isn’t the only reason, not anymore. If it ever had been in the first place.

“I _am_ sorry,” Tezuka continues in the continuing silence. “But I feel that I’ve left something here undone. I think that’s why I came here.” His chin rises, just a little, regaining the proud, stern expression Fuji remembers all too well. “I’m sure I will find the answer soon. Then I will be out of your life for good.”

“You’ve been out of my life for a decade,” Fuji says unthinkingly, and snaps his mouth shut.

“Not by choice,” Tezuka shoots back, to his surprise. “I don’t _remember_ , Fuji. But there is something I missed here, something I left behind.” Piercing brown gaze pins him in place, and Fuji feels his breath catch in his throat. “Something I had to come back for when all else was lost.”

“I don’t believe that.” Fuji’s voice comes out in a wintry snap, his denial reflexive. “For you, tennis has always been the most important thing in life.”

Tezuka is on it like a raptor. “I play tennis.” A crease appears between his brows. “You used to play. Is that how we knew each other?”

Drat. He’d forgotten about the pair of old pictures he’d framed and put on one of the shelves in the living room. Ten-year-old pictures, for crying out loud. He should have moved them to one of his numerous albums back at his parents’ house, along with everything else he’d left behind.

“Yes. But a long time ago, like I said.” He resists the urge to go and fold the picture frames facedown. He knows how pointless a gesture that is.

“Ten years,” Tezuka echoes. “Why can’t I get go of it, if it isn’t important?”

“I don’t know.” If he felt defensive, or angry, it would have made sense. Instead, Fuji is startled by how tired he feels. “If you wanted something more than what was there, then maybe you were looking in the wrong place.” He is viscerally aware how terrible the thought is. He cannot imagine how it might feel, to die and to come back for one thing he regrets, and finding it never existed in the first place. But he can never be anything but what he is. That was why they’d parted ways a decade ago. “Ten years, Tezuka. For that time, all I know about you is what I’ve gotten second or third-hand. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Tezuka is watching him closely the whole time, but instead of looking angry or even upset, he looks pensive. Then, the last makes him smile.

The memory of the last time he’d seen Tezuka smile is horrible, not the least because of how vivid and how achingly cherished it is.

“I don’t think it’s up to you,” Tezuka says, and he sounds strangely gentle. “I think _I’m_ supposed to find something. You are part of it, but you can’t just give me the answer. I have to figure it out myself.”

“Then why the lack of memory?” That is the biggest piece of the puzzle for Fuji. In most urban legends, typically ghosts do not lose the memories of their past. And Tezuka’s acute memory and brilliant intellect seem to work perfectly; it’s just the memories about Tezuka himself and his own life that are missing. Almost like dissociative amnesia, if a ghost can truly suffer something like that.

“Maybe what I know will only hinder me.” Tezuka sounds philosophical, unbothered. “If this is where my regret lies, clearly prior knowledge didn’t help me before.”

What Tezuka is missing, something to do with him, something all their shared history and knowledge cannot help them find. Mentioning tennis sparked a sense of recognition, Fuji is sure, but it isn’t the vital part. Or Tezuka would be gone.

“It’s late. You said you have the next two days.” Tezuka’s voice softens. “I know you’re trying to help me, even when you don’t have a reason to. Thank you.”

“Three days, with Sunday,” Fuji reminds him. “I can’t pretend all this is from altruism. Like you said, I do want my life back. But I don’t particularly like the thought of you being stuck like this forever, either. So...” It’s a tiny, barely-there thing, Tezuka’s quick laugh. But Fuji has known Tezuka very well, even if long ago. “You’re welcome.” Fuji stands. He has no appetite for dinner, not after eating a rather heavy snack at work today while he stayed overtime to finish his projects. He may as well shower and go to bed, and start fresh tomorrow. “I’m going to bed. We’ll start bright and early in the morning.”

“Good night, Fuji. Rest well.”

This part, all the morning and evening greetings, is becoming distressingly routine. Still, it’s not all unpleasant. Fuji smiles and grabs his jacket and the satchel he carries for work, and heads to the bedroom. “Thanks. Good night, Tezuka.”


	4. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I hadn’t caught up on _**Shin Tennis no Oujisama**_ when I was writing this. So the story isn’t very canon-compliant when it comes to events in ShinPuri. Sorry if it causes any confusion.

[Released Friday, February 5, 2016]

_Chapter 4. Friday_

Friday morning is bright and sunny. A crisp autumn day with surprisingly clear sky for Tokyo. Fuji’s mood is positive and remains positive through breakfast with Tezuka.

After breakfast they sit together at the table at Fuji’s insistence, since Tezuka has figured out how to sit on chairs now. On Tezuka’s side of the table steams a fragrant cup of green tea. Tezuka’s lips curl up briefly in amusement when Fuji sets down a cup before him, but raises his hands to cradle the ceramic mug anyway. Fuji has a cup of coffee in his hand, and it’s the special grind he favors, an imported one from the Dominican Republic. Thanks to his world-traveling parents and sister, he has developed a taste for wide variety of coffee and tea. The Dominican coffee in particular has a smooth, gentle taste which makes it a choice comfort drink for mornings when he needs quiet in his own thoughts.

“You know,” Fuji says halfway through his coffee. “The problem is, I really cannot imagine what you might be seeking here. Like I said, it’s been ten years since we’ve even met in person. The person I knew then isn’t the same person you are today. I don’t have the faintest clue what the twenty-five-year-old Tezuka Kunimitsu would want.”

“It’s probably not something my twenty-five-year-old self wants,” Tezuka says easily. “Or I would have gone elsewhere. If I came to you, I’m guessing it’s something that dates back ten years ago.”

“That’s what puzzles me, then.” Fuji takes a few more sips from his cup. “You see, you left ten years ago because you’d achieved everything you wanted to do here, in Japan.”

“What did I want then?” Tezuka sounds curious, but in a detached way. Like discussing someone else. Fuji supposes that _is_ more or less the case here.

“Winning the national title,” Fuji says immediately. “That was the dream you’d had since our first year in junior high school. At Seishun Gakuen tennis club. We called it Seigaku for short.”

There is no flicker of recognition in Tezuka’s eyes. “It feels familiar,” Tezuka allows. “But I don’t think that’s it. Can you tell me more?”

“Seigaku was a school known for its strong tennis club, but it had stalled for years by then. When you and I entered, Seigaku tennis club hadn’t even made it past the prefectural tournament in years. But in our second year, when you and I were Regular members along with some of our friends, we made it into the regional tournament.” Fuji doesn’t mention Tezuka’s injury in the first year, or how it worsened in the second year. Maybe it’s high-handed of him, wanting to spare Tezuka from the more painful memories. But for now, he sticks to the barebones of their history. “In our third year, we had a special addition to the club: Echizen Ryoma, son of an alumnus who is arguably one of the best tennis players in history. Echizen was rather special himself. He became one of our Regulars that very year.” Fuji’s lips curve at the memory. “Together, our team made it to the prefectural, the regional, and then the national tournament.”

“Which was my dream.” Tezuka repeats. He doesn’t sound disbelieving, but doesn’t sound like any of this sparks real recognition, either. “Why was it my dream?”

“Well, I think you always liked tennis. But when you were a first year, Captain Yamato – that person was our captain then – he and you made a promise. You promised to become Seigaku’s support pillar, and lead us to the national. In our third year, you became our captain and kept that promise.”

“So I left after that.”

Fuji feels a frown creasing his brows. “Not quite. We all went to a junior selection camp that year. It’s usually limited to high school students. But that year, there were so many exceptional junior high school students, some of us were invited to the selection camp.” A memory tugs at him, and he adds, impulsively, “Actually, you were invited to join the year before that, too. You didn’t go—”

Tezuka waits him out patiently. Fuji sighs. He hadn’t wanted to discuss Tezuka’s injury if he could help it, but his slip has made it necessary, after all.

“Because of an injury. That you had since your first year at Seigaku. In the second year, it became exacerbated. You didn’t tell us.” Which was a sore point. Fuji had found out anyway, but that wasn’t the issue. Fuji forces his thoughts back to the present. “It was the reason you missed the selection camp in your second year. You recovered in time for the tournament season in third year, but you sustained another injury during the regional. You managed a comeback before the national tournament began.” When he thinks about it, that part is actually the most miraculous part of the whole tale. Fuji pauses to collect his thoughts, then begins again.

“The selection camp during our third year, it was...” The fierce competitions among the courts, then with the numbered players. Tezuka’s departure after his match against their former captain, Yamato Yuudai. Their own match. “We had a meaningful time there. But you realized you’d achieved everything you needed to, that your promise was fulfilled in every sense. There was no reason for you to stay anymore. You could play tennis for your own sake. So you left for Germany.”

“So we never saw each other after the selection camp.”

“Ah, no. I visited you in Germany during the following spring break.” His throat feels strangely dry all of a sudden. Fuji takes another sip. “That was the last time we saw each other.” In a long swallow, he finishes his coffee. “And that’s all I know.”

Tezuka sits in silence, hands wrapped around the cup which is still steaming faintly. “You came to visit me in Germany.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long way for one visit.”

Fuji’s jaw clenches, and it takes him a moment to relax. “All of us were close back then.”

“But only you came to see me.”

“You owed me a rematch,” Fuji replies in what he hopes is a playful tone. Tezuka does not look convinced, but doesn’t call him on it.

“When was our last match before that?”

“Just before you left the selection camp.” Fuji knows his answer is short, coming out almost clipped. He had anticipate all this would come up when they talk about their past. That is why he didn’t want to talk to Tezuka in the beginning. Only, he hadn’t realized how much it would bother him to remember. Time has dulled the sharp edges of his memories, lulled him into a sense of forgetfulness. He holds back a curse. Like or not, there is no going back. And he really does need Tezuka to move on, to leave. All this – talking and sharing daily routines and saying good mornings and good nights – it’s becoming too familiar. He doesn’t want any of this to become a part of his life. He had a life before. He wants it back, he thinks viciously. That’s all he wants.

“I won,” Tezuka guesses. Not entirely accurate, but effectively true, so Fuji says nothing. “Since you said I owed you a rematch. Were those the only times we ever played? You said we were teammates.”

“There was one more time, in our first year. But you were injured then.”

“So I lost,” Tezuka finishes. “During the selection camp, our third year, that was our first real match.”

That isn’t quite right. Fuji manages to bite back the words this time before they escape. National final against Rikkai. Niou. Illusion.

Tezuka.

“First real match,” Fuji echoes. “Yes.”

“Fuji.” Tezuka’s voice is quiet, but precise as a razor blade. “I don’t know if I can leave unless I find whatever it is I’m missing.” Then, more kindly, he continues. “I understand you don’t want to tell me any of this. If the past was something you wanted to revisit, you would have kept in touch.” Of course Tezuka would have realized that. Even without his memories, Tezuka had accurately guessed that not keeping in touch wasn't his decision. Tezuka’s voice is all the more devastating for its gentleness. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of any other way.”

“I fought your shadow during the national tournament, through another opponent,” Fuji says in a rush. “That was all. It’s not... I’d won then. For some reason, even though we were in the same club for three years, you and I never played against each other. During the national, what I defeated was merely a shadow. An illusion. But it made me want to face you for real. And we did, during that selection camp.” Started to, anyway, but he doesn’t know how to explain this, any of this.

“And again, in Germany, when you came to visit me in spring,” Tezuka adds. His voice is still very gentle. “And you won, then.”

Fuji knows he hasn’t mentioned that. Actually he’d never mentioned that to anyone. That match was a personal score, something private between them. “How did you figure that out?”

Tezuka slants him a look, halfway between knowing and challenging. “I think you would have tried until you won. If that was the last time we ever played, then you must have.”

“You are distressingly your usual self, memory or no memory,” Fuji informs him archly. Tezuka rewards him with another quirk of mouth, a quicker, smaller version of his rare smiles.

“Memory or no memory, I think I would have had one question.” Tezuka stops, a slight frown on his face. After a moment of silence, he looks up at Fuji, more neutral expression in place. “I gather from all you’ve said that I really love tennis.”

“More than anything, I would have said,” Fuji agrees.

“And I am a professional tennis player.”

“One of the best in the world. You won Wimbledon this year for a career grand slam. Actually, if you hadn’t dropped out of French Open, you might have had a fair shot at a calendar-year grand slam.”

“Why did I drop out?”

Fuji hesitates. Tezuka has a right to know, but... “Death in the family,” Fuji says softly. “I heard your grandfather had passed away.” On that occasion Fuji had, albeit second-handed through Oishi, sent an expression of condolence to the Tezuka family in an unprecedented breach of his decade-long silence. 

“Ah.”

The soft syllable is too quiet to read any emotion from it. Not that Tezuka tends to be expressive even during a normal conversation. “It was unexpected,” Fuji explains. “Your grandfather was in excellent health. It was right after the main draw started. You were...” Tezuka was never in the habit of speaking about himself, or his family life. But from what little Tezuka had said over the three years of their acquaintance, Fuji had gleaned Tezuka held a great deal of respect and affection for his grandfather. He inhales carefully, and sidesteps, just a little. “You were the favorite to win. You were excellently placed in your draw as well. Echizen was in your block, but you usually have an edge over him on clay.”

He’d stopped all private communication with Tezuka after that spring visit ten years ago, but it doesn’t mean Fuji lost all interest in Tezuka’s progress. He _has_ followed Tezuka and Echizen’s careers with attention, if in strict silence and privacy. It is also how he heard about Tezuka’s accident, although he’d purposely neglected to find out the specifics of it.

Fuji still hasn’t looked up details of the accident even after finding Tezuka in his kitchen. He didn’t want to know then and especially doesn’t now. Possibly, it is just as well that Tezuka himself doesn’t remember.

If Tezuka thinks it strange that Fuji, for all that they’ve been out of touch for a decade, has apparently kept up with his tennis career, he doesn’t let on. “Perhaps my goal was to achieve a calendar-year grand slam. Or to be ranked number one in the world.”

Maybe. But Fuji doubts it. “I wouldn’t know.”

“What do you think?”

“Are you asking for my opinion?”

Tezuka doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But my goal ten years ago was to win the national tournament.”

This is harder than Fuji expected. More so because now that he is trying to explain, he isn’t so sure if _he_ knows any of this with certainty. “I think you genuinely wanted us to be strong, to succeed. And a good part of that was because of your promise to Captain Yamato.” Tezuka nods. “I think you saw it as your responsibility to push us. To pull us along. To stand together in that place. To win. But, above all else, I think you just loved tennis.”

Which is so strange to think now. Given Tezuka once picked an argument with him for his unwillingness to go all out for the win. But now, ten years older if not necessarily wiser, Fuji thinks maybe it wasn’t so much his unwillingness to push for victory as his unwillingness to push _himself_. The drive to win is an excellent motivator to excel, to become better, to overcome limits. Back then, in that match in the rain against Echizen, he would have found it interesting, maybe even satisfying to see Echizen break his Triple Counters. But having his favorite techniques broken wouldn’t have pushed him to develop something even more amazing in return, to become stronger. Not then. It took his defeat at Shiraishi’s hands to get there.

“You scolded me once, you know. For not going all out for a win. Said that all you could think of at that time was victory for Seigaku. And you did sacrifice a great deal for that. You even risked your future career as a tennis player.” Fuji is at a strange mental place. The memories still hurt, but there is a strange, greater calm underneath, something that keeps him afloat in their midst. “But I think, at the heart of it all, you were frustrated with me for not taking tennis seriously. Winning isn’t everything, and I think you always knew that. But the desire to win, the competitive drive – it’s a great way to push ourselves to reach beyond our limits. I think you wanted me to understand that.”

“But you didn’t stay.”

Once, he’d expected those words would be like a stab of a knife. Now, it feels more like a jab from a stick. Still a tender spot, but not precisely a wound. “As a tennis player, no. I wanted other things out of my life.”

Tezuka is silent for a long moment. When Fuji sneaks a look at his face, Tezuka looks as impassive as ever. After the silence begins to feel uncomfortable, Tezuka looks up, meets his eyes, and inclines his head briefly.

“Thank you, Fuji. I think I have enough to consider for the moment.”

“You’re welcome,” Fuji replies cautiously. It’s still morning. He has all of today and the next two days to help Tezuka. He hadn’t actually expected Tezuka to be the one to put the brakes on this. What he had expected was for Tezuka to ask him incessant questions about everything and drive him quietly insane. At least it would have been more natural. Still, the mixture of subtle annoyance and respect is a familiar company in Tezuka’s vicinity. The thought makes him smile. “I was thinking about how to do our research. On how we might send you on.”

“Library?” Tezuka hazards a guess.

Fuji laughs. “Internet first. We can sort out which information is available only in print, then hit the library after.” Tezuka doesn’t quite make a face, but comes close enough that Fuji laughs again. “It’s more efficient. Even at my work I’m considered old-fashioned because I still like building physical models. Most of it can be done with a computer program these days, so most of my colleagues do almost everything by computer.”

Tezuka looks intrigued. “What do you do?”

“I’m an architect.” This is one thing that he has always thought would surprise even Tezuka. It has surprised everyone else in his life.

Tezuka merely quirks a brow. “You were good at everything, weren’t you? When we were in school together.”

“Not everything. Science was always my weakness.”

This time, Tezuka’s lips distinctly take on a curvature of a smug smile. Almost a smirk really. Oishi might faint, Fuji thinks with mild exasperation. “Only if it involved memorizing endless formulas you couldn’t see the point of. Physics, maybe. You were probably fine with biology.”

Fuji _had_ won prizes for his paper on cacti. He gives Tezuka a half-hearted glare. “You know, in the ten years I haven’t seen you, you’ve gotten more annoying.”

“Have I?” The question is half genuine. And half amused. Fuji shakes his head.

“Or, in your everyday absence, rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia may have softened my memories of you,” Fuji says loftily.

“Perhaps.”

Oishi would definitely faint. Maybe Inui, too. Probably Eiji as well. Fuji is amused despite himself at the thought. Besides, it’s...nice, bantering with Tezuka like this. When they were young Tezuka wasn’t the joking sort, always too serious for his own good. But when Fuji teased him, usually good-naturedly, Tezuka never backed down, either. Pushed right back. There was a reason Fuji liked teasing Tezuka the best. Most people he has met never push back as much as Tezuka does.

The memory of their duel during the athletic festival in second year makes him smile. It was just a silly kibasen match. Yet long after theirs were the last two teams standing, the two of them had continued with their evenly-matched fight to snatch each other’s colored cap until the teachers were forced to step in and call the match a draw. Their poor classmates who had played the role of their “horses” had been utterly exhausted.

Tezuka is watching him, but doesn’t ask. Instead, when Fuji lifts an inquiring eyebrow at him, Tezuka changes the topic. “Can you show me? Your work.”

The question genuinely surprises him. “Sure,” Fuji answers, pleasure an unexpectedly bright flare in his mind. “Hold on. Let me grab my laptop. My desktop is in my study, but you can’t go there. I’ll be right back.”

~*~*~*~

By the time they take a break for lunch, Fuji is irritated to realize they haven’t done any actual research pertaining to Tezuka’s predicament. But then again, he hadn’t expected Tezuka to show so much interest in his work. Since Tezuka doesn’t remember anything about himself, perhaps his curiosity is naturally bent toward things he _can_ find out more easily. Still, Fuji isn’t sure what to make of the fact all of Tezuka’s favorites are his own favorite projects as well.

“Why architecture?” Tezuka asks when Fuji finishes eating. Tezuka’s attention is still mostly on the looped slideshow Fuji made as an impromptu portfolio of his projects, both the ones he’d managed and the ones he’d worked on under someone else’s leadership. He hadn’t tried putting together a portfolio since getting the current position three and a half years ago. Back then, his portfolio had been much smaller, consisting of half a dozen student projects, a couple winning entries for contests, and four and a half projects he’d been involved in on his first job. He finds himself surprised by the sheer volume of material he has accumulated since then.

“Since I was little, I liked taking pictures. Mostly nature and landscapes at first, but then I branched out to people and architecture.” It feels strange to be explaining this to Tezuka. This is the kind of answer he’s given for job interviews and the media. And occasionally, even to friends and family. At its finest, architecture is a creative work with an endless possibility of innovation. Art, in its most viscerally utilitarian incarnation. He enjoys the work immensely. “I guess at some point I wanted to become more actively involved in the creation of the subjects I’m recording, rather than simply taking pictures of them.”

“You enjoy incorporating nature into your work.”

“When I can,” Fuji agrees. “Unfortunately it’s not often.” Most people envision fantasy houses and grand monuments and famous landmarks when the word architecture is mentioned. However, the truth is most of his works consist of mundane details like shops and offices, and not even necessarily new constructions at that. Many of the times, his job is to renovate pre-existing structures, or just change the interior of a select space without ever touching the rest of the building. Getting to design a nature-based space, even a small garden, often feels like a gift.

“Tennis. Photography. Architecture.” Tezuka is still looking at the slideshow, although by now he must have seen all the pictures at least five times. “I didn’t know about the last one.”

That _is_ a question. “Probably not.” He may have won some prizes, and garnered moderate media attention, but most of that has been in Japan. Plus Fuji, like most young architects launching their career under someone else’s company, cannot claim full credit for his projects or the recognition that independent architects take for granted. He doubts Tezuka would have found out any of this even if he were actively searching. “It’s not something you would have been interested in.”

“Architecture? Or that you chose it?”

“Both, I think.” Once, Fuji thought both to be absolutely true. But after the morning he had, he’s no longer sure if the first is true.

The second still is, he’s certain of it. The moment he decided tennis wasn’t something he wanted to pour his life into, he would have ceased to matter in Tezuka’s world.

His exhalation is very careful. And quiet.

“We should really get a start on researching about your current situation,” Fuji says. “We’ve probably spent too much time talking about my work. We may have to put off the library visit until tomorrow.” Belatedly Fuji recalls Tezuka can’t come with him anyway. “Hopefully we’ll find something soon. I don’t think my boss will be very happy if I ask for any more days off, at least for a while. This was really on short notice even for me.”

Tezuka’s eyes follow him while he closes the files and refreshes the browsers. Fuji can feel their path almost like a physical touch. He ignores the shivery, prickling feeling along his skin, and pulls up a new browser to begin their search.

~*~*~*~

Hours after dinner, even with all his professional experience staring at a computer screen, Fuji is beginning to get a headache. To be fair, he’s actually been at it longer even than his normal work hours. Nowhere close to his record during one of the company’s rush projects (19 hours and 42 minutes on an unbroken stretch, with even meals and breaks taken at his desk), but getting tiresome regardless.

“You should rest,” Tezuka says quietly. Fuji isn’t sure if specters can get tired also, but he is keenly aware that Tezuka cannot actually perform the search by himself even if Fuji leaves the laptop out in the kitchen or living room overnight. Still, the ache in his neck spreading down his back tells him his body is probably nearing its limit.

“We should have done this in my study,” Fuji says, rotating his neck to work out the worst of the cricks. “I have a much better chair there. More ergonomic.” He then recalls why they didn’t, and sighs. “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”

“Because you’re getting tired,” Tezuka points out patiently. “Rest, Fuji. We can start again in the morning. I have enough information to go over while you rest.”

That is an annoyingly reasonable suggestion. “Sleep is a fallacy,” Fuji decides, interrupted by a yawn he dismisses irritably. “But I suppose yes, the rest of us mortals must succumb.” Suppressing another yawn, he stands and stretches. “Alright, I’m off to bed. Try and see if you can make it to my study for tomorrow. It’d make my life easier.”

“I will. Good night, Fuji.”

“Good night, Tezuka,” he replies automatically. Then pauses, and leaves quickly.

Right. There is a reason he wanted to help Tezuka move on. And a lot of it has to do with how readily and disturbingly he is becoming accustomed to Tezuka’s presence. Maybe Yuuta was onto something when he remarked Fuji is too weird for his own good. Most normal, sane people probably don’t become used to having a ghost around. Hell, the normal, sane response is probably to scream and run the other way.

Memories of the past were bad enough. He doesn’t need a ghost to make it worse. He is going to help Tezuka move on, and then he can move on with his own life. Life goes on, no matter what. That, he is quite familiar with. Fuji lies on the bed, defiantly counting sheep even as sleep fails to descend. In stubbornness alone Tezuka has probably met his match in Fuji. And if Fuji wants to lie in his bed wide awake as if sheer willpower would make sleep possible, then he damned well will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTE: “Kibasen” – “cavalry battle” – is a common event for athletic festivals in Japan. Three people make up the “horse” and carry the fourth member of the team, who try to knock off other competitors from their “horse” or snatch their bandanna (or cap), either of which would meant defeat. The mention of Tezuka vs Fuji kibasen (outcome undecided) is found in the fanbook **_Pair Puri vol 10 Fuji x Shishido COUNTER_**.


	5. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Oh right, Valentine’s Day. Not sure if this really fits the theme, exactly, but – happy Valentine’s Day anyway? Onmyouji is basically a medium, although they (used to) enjoy a much more respected reputation (plus official, state recognition) than the western world mediums. Or maybe witch doctor is a better term. I actually have no clue how SONY Nasne works, so it’s basically what _I_ want it to do rather than any real concept of its functions. Pay no attention to the man behind the – er, any inconsistencies that may distract you from your reading experience.

[Released Saturday, February 13, 2016]

_Chapter 5. Saturday_

Saturday morning comes with an annoyingly bright sun. The light makes his bleary head feel even worse. Fuji winces, noting how late it is. As a rule, he doesn’t wake up that early on a day off, but nine in the morning is pushing it.

To his surprise, he doesn’t find Tezuka waiting impatiently in the kitchen. In fact, Tezuka is nowhere to be found in the kitchen or the living room. A sliver of panic, sharp and unexpected, freezes him in his track. A heartbeat later Fuji gathers himself, taking stock of the situation.

“Tezuka?” he calls experimentally, and his voice comes out steady. A moment later Tezuka appears, flickering a little as he squeezes through the half-opened door to Fuji’s home office. The relief is equally and shockingly sudden, with the force of a punch to the gut. It takes Fuji a moment to find his voice again. “I see you’ve managed to negotiate my study. If the trend holds, I do request that you stay out of my bedroom and bathroom. At least while I’m in them.”

“Of course,” Tezuka replies as if the thought has never even occurred to him. Knowing him, it probably hasn’t. “You look tired,” he says, and the observation is tinged with a hint of concern.

Fuji waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve pulled way more hours for work. I’ll be fine. Let’s run through a few more search phrases before lunch. Then I can hit the physical archives. A list of titles would come in handy.”

“You should eat breakfast first,” Tezuka suggests, neutral, but the reproach is still plain.

“I’ll make some eggs. I can multitask.” He squeezes past Tezuka into the kitchen and starts the coffee, and heats up a frying pan. Tezuka follows him wordlessly and watches him, leaning on the counter. “I’m guessing no epiphany during the night on your end.”

“No,” Tezuka says placidly. He doesn’t sound upset.

“Sorry. We’ll have better luck today, I hope.” And he does hope, because Fuji isn’t sure how long his sanity will hold out at this rate. He is already getting used to having a ghastly companion around the house. What next? Does he want to know?

“Ah.”

Tezuka doesn’t sit down this time, looking at the coffeemaker instead. Fuji is grateful for the lack of conversation, or rather, for the lack of Tezuka’s attention on him. It’s far too easy to become accustomed to having it constantly. He is gaining an uncomfortable level of empathy for drug addicts.

After he finishes, Fuji takes the cup of coffee and the plate of eggs and moves to his study. Fuji’s study is actually a second bedroom he’d taken to using as a home office. Fuji’s apartment is small, but does have two rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. His parents initially expressed dismay at his decision to live here, especially when commuting from home was doable. Even his sister had lived at home for years after getting her first job. And until his second promotion in his current company, a little over a year and half after being hired, this apartment was actually a stretch to maintain on his salary. But he’d liked having a space of his own. The apartment provides all the space he needs alone, and he’d liked it from the first moment he saw it. Now, if he wants to, he can afford better, but until he finds the right place where he feels home, he isn’t willing to abandon his current nest solely for the sake of having more space.

His home office desk is nothing like the sleek, urbane ergonomics of his workplace desk. It’s actually an old-fashioned drafting table architects traditionally used before computers became a staple in their line of work. On the table, however, is a 27-inch iMac rather than rolls of oversized drafting paper. Fuji still uses paper time to time, but computer has become indispensable to his work. The Apple iMac is ruthlessly graceful in a minimalist, futuristic way, and at times he misses the old-fashioned round CRT monitor he grew up with, back when Apple design was more quirky and whimsical. But the chair for his home office is quite comfortable, and it’s a relief to work here instead of the kitchen. He pulls up a spare chair for Tezuka, and after a moment, Tezuka sits down next to him, looking far more natural sitting in chairs than he had previously.

And Tezuka likes the immense screen, he can tell. Not that he can blame Tezuka. Apple had always placed emphasis on powerful graphic display, and on a 27-inch screen, the high-resolution clarity is like a visual artist’s wet dream. So under the pretext of searching for files he deliberately flips through some of the more dazzling pictures he’d taken over the years.

The thing is, everyone thinks Tezuka is expressionless. If one watches only the movements of the facial muscles, he can see why people think that. But Tezuka’s true expressions are in his eyes. How they subtly widen or narrow, become softer or harder. A body could write a paper on how the angle of Tezuka’s eyelashes communicates emotions. And how those brown eyes gain a frightening intensity when Tezuka is absorbed in something. Tezuka doesn’t exactly lean forward, but the muscles in his shoulders and back shift subtly, relaxing into a more comfortable position – all the better to watch intently with, apparently.

They take turns coming up with search phrases. After their first day, they have given up including words like ‘ghost’ or ‘haunting.’ The majority of search results for those words points to whatever latest horror movies are playing in the theaters, urban legends, and local attractions unscrupulously taking advantage of the former. A frustratingly immense volume of information is about pop culture and entertainment. A significant portion of the rest is occult, but more of an armchair mysticism sort rather than anything resembling practical or even scholarly in nature. Most of the scholastic treatises on the topic deal with social science. Perhaps they should have expected as much. Study of the supernatural has never been considered a serious academic pursuit.

Still they persist, searching for phrases after phrases, and making note of promising references. As the morning grows late, Tezuka glances at the digital clock on the desk, and clears his throat.

“You should take a break,” Tezuka says. The words are a suggestion, not imperative, and it feels strange to hear Tezuka without the usual commanding tone.

And today, it is the lack of an imperative in those words that makes Fuji relent. “Good time to stop for tea, anyway.” He saves the document where he’s been compiling his notes. “Do you want me to put anything on the screen while you wait?”

Tezuka actually hesitates. “The pictures before,” he says quietly. “Were those yours?”

“Which, the ones I was going through in the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, they’re mine.” Old pictures, mostly – he hasn’t had much time for his longtime hobby since graduating from college. Or even before, with internships and part-time work he did with his first company before graduation. He hasn’t developed his own prints in over a year. At least digital photography is far less time-consuming than traditional photography.

“Can you...” Tezuka stops, then begins again. “May I look at them?”

It is not, strictly speaking, that personal a request. It’s just that no one else has asked that in a long time. His sister, most recently, and that was last Christmas when their family gathered together for the occasion. His pictures are saved in folders marked with dates, but honestly at this point he’s not even sure what’s in those folders. He hasn’t gone through them to cull the pictures in a long time.

“It’s not really organized,” Fuji warns while he pulls up another slideshow and adds a selection of recent folders. “I haven’t had the time to go through any of these.” He starts the slideshow and moves out of the way so Tezuka can see the screen unimpeded.

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

“Sure. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

When he returns after a stretching session and short snack, a cup of tea in hand, he finds Tezuka completely absorbed in the slideshow. Instead of entering, Fuji leans on the doorframe to drink his tea quietly. It’s kind of flattering to have that absolute attention on his pictures. The current series of shots are time-lapse pictures taken at 0.05 second intervals, of a skinny young skateboarder performing complicated kick-flip. He remembers that day. He was at a park near his apartment complex, and he had his camera with him out of sheer habit, but he hadn’t been looking specifically to take pictures that day. He’d stopped at a deserted section of the park and took a number of close-up shot of a pair of sparrows having a tug-of-war with a worm. Then, he’d looked up as a young skateboarder, probably still in junior high, came and started practicing in the clearing. On a whim, he put the camera on timed shots, and looked up to aim just in time to catch the boy perform a perfect kick-flip with a complicated twist. He remembers the nervous determination on the boy’s face, that all-too-familiar mix of hope and apprehension and excitement, and finally triumph after the success. He hadn’t realized what his own camera captured in those shots. A study in motion, crisp and beautiful. And of the flickers of emotions on the boy’s face, tension smoothing into a focused concentration, then to disbelief swiftly phasing into elation.

Tezuka’s focus on the pictures is unshakable and nearly palpable. It’s only when the slideshow moves on to shots of autumn colors that Fuji pushes away from the doorframe. Still, he hesitates to interrupt. Tezuka doesn’t seem to even notice his presence, completely engrossed as he is in watching the slideshow. And there is a strange sense of re-watching his own life here. The moments he witnessed, lived through, then forgotten, brought back to be relived before a witness. Before Tezuka. And suddenly, the mundane shots seem unbearably intimate. Like he has given Tezuka a window from which to look into his own life without realizing what he’s doing.

“Ready?” he says, quiet enough not to startle, but Tezuka’s shoulders stiffen. Fuji doesn’t apologize for interrupting, because while he can mislead, he tries not to lie outright.

“Your pictures,” Tezuka says softly without turning to face him. “They are special. Thank you for letting me see them.”

Beyond the politeness, the way Tezuka says it bothers him. The pictures he put in the slideshow – those are not the usual kind he offers to people who show a polite interest in his hobby. To them he would have shown photographs of spectacular landscapes, soaring skyscrapers and famous landmarks, and artfully framed shots of people. What he put in the slideshow today, by accident or design, is nothing like that. They are the snapshots of his life. And to those Tezuka didn’t offer any mundane, meaningless praise.

In fact Tezuka’s choice of words isn’t a praise at all. It’s an acknowledgement. And the thread of longing underneath the words too quiet and unadorned to be dishonest... He doesn’t know what to make of that. How to react.

It could be a simple longing for the life Tezuka lost, Fuji decides. Fuji is sorry for that, too. And, if he is honest with himself, he does regret the ten years he wasn’t a part of Tezuka’s life. He always has. It is one thing he never spoke to anyone else about, ever.

“Sure,” he says, because he cannot say in all honesty, ‘You’re welcome.’ Instead, he steps forward to reclaim his seat with the half-finished cup of tea in his hand. “Alright, I think after lunch, I’ll be ready to hit the library.”

~*~*~*~

In the afternoon, when Fuji leaves his apartment, it’s with something of a relief.

Between the two of them, they’ve made an impressive set of notes, and a workable list of resources to look up, and had even confirmed the closest library branch has a number of books on their list. So it’s been far more productive day compared to Friday.

But that moment of Tezuka looking at his pictures still lingers in his mind, like something scraping over a patch of raw skin. If it hasn’t drawn blood, it’s only because the wound is too old, maybe. He hadn’t thought it’d bother him this much, to remember they hadn’t been part of each other’s lives for ten years, and why. He hadn’t thought what it means to talk to Tezuka about his life, to let Tezuka in his life again. He hadn’t thought at all.

Unbidden, the memories of the last time they saw each other in person come to him in excruciatingly vivid details. Of Germany. How everything had looked different. Smelled different. Only the pair of brown eyes looking at him with perfect clarity had been the same. Across the net, Tezuka’s focus was like a center of gravity, drawing him closer effortlessly until everything else faded away, leaving behind nothing but the weight of the tennis racket in his hand, Tezuka’s presence in the opposite court, and the ball connecting them like a tangible thread thrumming between them.

Afterward, when they shook hands at the net, the warmth of Tezuka’s hand was a shock, and at that moment, something tilted his world clear off its axis for one dazzling instant. Tezuka’s eyes were warm and happy in the way he only saw once before, when Seigaku won the national championship. And there was so much in that beautiful smile. So much, and not enough, because he’d realized what he wanted so desperately yet never knew until now. Why it would never be enough. By the time his mind caught up, he’d already taken a step forward, a hand reaching for Tezuka.

The smell of early spring was colder and sharper in Germany, a reminder they weren’t home in Japan. His perception had changed, but nothing else had. Tezuka was chasing after his dream to become a professional tennis player, and Fuji was returning to Japan the day after, to a Seigaku without Tezuka. The sudden pang of loss was so sharp Fuji had to close his eyes.

Their connection, even if it couldn’t give him everything he wanted, was deep and intimate and powerful. But it had been forged through tennis. Unless Fuji chose tennis, they would drift apart until one day they would meet on the street as old acquaintances exchanging awkwardly distant greetings of two people who had long since grown out of each other’s lives. For one dizzying moment Fuji was tempted, oh, so tempted. If only—

Then the moment passed. And Fuji let his hand drop, brushing away a stray leaf from Tezuka’s shoulder, fingers barely grazing the material of soft cotton shirt.

“If it’s you, you’ll be able to achieve your dreams,” he’d said softly, and was proud to hear his voice held nothing of the tremor in his heart. His smile was genuine, even if his face ached with every breath. “Good luck, Tezuka.”

Tezuka had nodded, but Fuji cannot remember what Tezuka said in return. All he remembers is that they didn’t say goodbye the day after, when they parted at the airport. Possibly Tezuka assumed they would keep in touch, that there was no need for farewells between them.

Fuji sent him one short message after he returned to Japan, thanking him for his hospitality and other sundry. And never wrote again.

Tezuka had sent messages after, although they all went unanswered. Admittedly, life in high school was significantly busier for everyone, probably none more so than for Tezuka himself. And with Oishi attending a different high school, it wasn’t difficult misdirecting the rest, so when the subject of Tezuka did come up, the complete lack of personal communication between himself and Tezuka never came under much attention. Eventually, Tezuka’s messages stopped, and he’d moved on with life as if Tezuka Kunimitsu had never been part of his life in the first place.

It is a decision he has lived with for ten years. A part of him wants to be angry. He had moved on. And having to deal with Tezuka now when everything is too late anyway – it’s not fair. Whatever is holding Tezuka here may be something that involves him, but when everything is said and done, there will be nothing left for him but broken peace. Fuji isn’t so self-absorbed to think his decision affected only him. He knows he is one of the few Tezuka counted as a close friend once, and the sudden and swift separation must have hurt. That Tezuka continued to reach out to him for over a full year after their last meeting is a testament in itself, especially given how proud Tezuka is. He also concedes it isn’t fair to Tezuka, since he never gave any reasons for his action. And maybe that is why Tezuka came to him, because this is one mystery Tezuka couldn’t solve on his own.

If so, Fuji thinks sourly, Tezuka will be rather disappointed to learn his motivation was actually very simple and selfish. Self-preservation, really. Nothing more.

He ignores the whisper of a thought that right now, he is trying to do the exact same thing for the exact same reason. He can examine his reasoning and motivation later. For now, he has work to do. Forcing his attention to the list in his hand, Fuji starts to scan the rows of bookshelves.

~*~*~*~

When Fuji returns, Tezuka is not in the study or the kitchen, or even the living room. Fuji’s heart gives an uneasy lurch for a moment before he spots a faint, wispy movement on his balcony. Since the little balcony extends from his living room, separated by panes of glass stretching from ceiling to floor, he reasons one could consider the balcony an extended part of the living room space. Either that, or Tezuka has finally gained access to all parts of his apartment, and maybe the outside. He drops the bag full of books on the coffee table and goes to join Tezuka.

“I’m back.”

Tezuka half-turns to look at him. “Welcome back.” Tezuka’s expression is warm. Almost uncomfortably so.

“I grabbed a few more books that looked interesting,” Fuji says brightly. “So, are you able to go outside now, or is this still part of the apartment?”

“I couldn’t go out the front door,” Tezuka informs him with the same untroubled tone as ever. “I think the balcony may be considered an extension of your living room.”

“Ah. Did you try the bedroom and the bathroom?”

Tezuka blinks like the question took him off guard. “I didn’t try.”

Of course Tezuka didn’t. Fuji smiles wryly. “Nice to have some fresh air, though. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The afternoon is growing late. And it’s mid-November, so the sun is already sinking steadily toward the western horizon. The cool air has a bite to it. He shivers, and idly wonders if apparitions can feel cold.

“You should go inside.”

Fuji flicks a look at him, but Tezuka’s expression remains neutral. “Are you coming inside?”

“In a minute.”

“Do you feel cold at all?”

Tezuka doesn’t reply right away. “It’s more of an awareness than a feeling. I can tell the air is growing colder, but it doesn’t affect me. Warmth is the same.”

“I see.” Fuji wonders, not for the first time, if Tezuka is more bothered by his current state than he admits. “If I asked you a question that bothers you—”

“I ask you questions that bother you all the time,” Tezuka interrupts, and there is a hint of humor in his voice. “It’s fine, Fuji.”

“It’s not a problem, you know,” Fuji blurts out. “You being here, I mean. It’s just... I’m used to living in a certain way. I don’t deal very well with changes.” The ones he didn’t plan for himself, at least. Fuji has always hated losing control of a situation.

“I understand. I think.” Tezuka studies him. “Am I the same?”

“Maybe a little. But you’ve always been unafraid of changes, especially when you’re going after something you want. You never look back.”

Tezuka’s gaze on him this time is disconcerting. The novelty of it, probably. Before, Tezuka would never have studied him like this, with a thorough yet leisurely sort of attention. There never would have been a reason.

“Tunnel vision,” Tezuka remarks.

Fuji lets out a startled laugh. “Maybe. But you’d have to be, to achieve what you did.”

“Did you disapprove?”

That completely derails his thoughts. Fuji has never thought his approval or disapproval would have meant much to Tezuka. Not because Tezuka didn’t care about his opinions, but because for Tezuka, ultimately the decision must rest with him. That is one trait they share.

“No,” Fuji answers truthfully. “It’s part of who you are.”

There is a serious look in Tezuka’s eyes that sets off all kinds of alarms in Fuji’s head. Only, Tezuka also looks uncertain, and that is rare enough that he cannot quite bring himself to leave. And because this is Tezuka, even when visibly looking uncertain Tezuka doesn’t look away. “Is that why?”

He really, really should go now. However, there is a wry, resigned voice in his head saying that ship has sailed a few days ago. “Why what?”

“Why you stopped talking to me,” Tezuka clarifies patiently. The uncertainty hasn’t faded from his gaze, but still Tezuka doesn’t avoid his eyes. “Because of the way I am.”

It isn’t _fair_ to pin it on Tezuka, Fuji knows. Tezuka doesn’t remember. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have known. As far as Tezuka is concerned, Fuji simply stopped talking for no reason at all, like what they once shared wasn’t important anymore. “No.”

“I don’t understand.” Tezuka looks troubled. “The more I find out about you, the less I understand. I cannot think of any reason I would want to sever our ties. I came back here: you must have been important to me, even after we stopped talking. Why did we stop?”

“It wasn’t you.”

He is an adult. It has been ten years. Tezuka will be gone from his life soon enough, and for good this time. He has never told Tezuka the truth. Now he thinks maybe he should have. Which means right now is either six days late or a decade late, but just maybe, it’s still better than never.

“I’d realized something during our last match.”

“About me?”

A wan smile tugs at Fuji’s lips. “No, me. About something I wanted. But with the same heartbeat I knew that I...” Fuji inhales deeply, then exhales slowly. “For the sake of what I wanted, I would have to make a choice that would change my life’s direction. A choice that I might regret later. Because to make it would mean changing myself, and for a wrong reason.”

“If you stayed in contact with me, you would have made that choice?” The frown is back on Tezuka’s face, but it just makes him look more troubled. Upset, rather than angry.

How to explain? That he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ choose tennis, not when he wasn’t sure he wanted it for his own sake and not Tezuka’s? That never was or would ever be how Fuji Syuusuke lived his life. Yet, at the time he couldn’t endure the thought of their connection desiccating without tennis until he was nothing more than relic of a past Tezuka left behind. Better a cauterizing cut than a slow suffocation, surely. 

“I—thought a clean break would be better in the long run,” Fuji says, and knows his reply doesn’t answer anything. He can almost hear what Tezuka’s next question will be: what was it Fuji wanted so much that he might have made a choice against his nature, that he had to cut off all contact to escape? Fuji has never put it in plain words, not even to himself. But if Tezuka presses, Fuji supposes he owes Tezuka that much. And Fuji has always taken debts very seriously.

Yet again, Tezuka surprises him. “It’s growing cold. You should go inside, Fuji.”

He is shivering, as a matter of fact. “What about you?”

“The cold doesn’t bother me. I need to think for a little while.”

Fuji nods. “Take your time, then.”

After a last glance at Tezuka’s pensive expression, Fuji heads back to the comforting warmth on the other side of the glass.

~*~*~*~

Fuji ends up starting on the books alone. Tezuka remains on the balcony like a faint reflection on the glass, but as the sunlight turns ruddy, his outline becomes more defined. Resolutely, Fuji turns his attention to the book he’s reading, a collection of folklore and legends. By the time Tezuka comes inside, briefly rippling through the glass pane, Fuji is done with the first book, and the sun is setting.

“Everything okay?” Fuji asks. Tezuka looks more composed than before, but still looks out of sorts.

“I’m not sure yet.” Tezuka’s answer is frank, and probably the most truthful answer Tezuka can give. Fuji decides not to press.

“I’m done with the first one. It’s a collection of legends, mostly oral traditions. I think the gist is that spirits haunt the living if they left something unfulfilled in life, or if they’ve been wronged. Murdered before their time, for example.”

“Ah.” Tezuka looks at him, and says dryly, “Not applicable, then.”

“Unfulfilled might still fit the bill,” Fuji tosses back. “But yes, the last I heard, it was supposed to have been an accident. Presumably nobody staged it.”

Tezuka’s mouth quirks. “A comfort to know. And how do spirits move on?”

“They tend to move on once whatever they left undone is completed. Or when they’ve been avenged.”

“No tips on techniques?”

“None. We may have to consult an onmyouji,” Fuji informs him brightly.

Tezuka makes a little face. “Assuming you can find one that actually knows what he’s doing.”

Fuji chuckles. “Quite. I don’t think it’s as easy as movies make it sound.”

Tezuka doesn’t dignify that with a response, although his mouth quirks briefly. “You should eat.”

Fuji raises an eyebrow at him. “You would be a beautiful wife,” he says archly.

“I don’t think I can cook,” Tezuka answers, not an eyelash batted.

Fuji laughs, startled. Wistfulness is quick to return, reminding him he doesn’t actually know if Tezuka can cook or not. Tezuka’s life is – was – probably busy enough that he may not have had time to develop culinary skills. But being an athlete who needs to maintain a regulated diet even with an irregular schedule, maybe Tezuka did learn out of necessity. Fuji will never know now.

“I’m sure you can negotiate your terms,” Fuji says, hoping his levity doesn’t sound forced. “Any request while I cook?” He considers his question and clarifies, “To watch, I mean. I do have a TV.”

“What do I like?” Tezuka asks, and sounds genuinely curious. Of course, he doesn’t remember. Fuji isn’t sure if Tezuka still enjoys comedy shows, but it’s a place to start.

“Let’s begin with something funny and find our way from there.”

There is some time before _Mecha 2 Iketeru_ is on, and he’s not sure if Tezuka has kept up with the show in more recent years. He does have some of the old episodes saved on his SONY Nasne. He scrolls through until he finds several of them, and starts on one.

Once Tezuka is comfortably situated on the sofa watching, he goes to the kitchen to cook dinner for himself. There is a strange comfort in the sound of TV in the background. It brings him back to the time he lived at home. His mother cooking dinner, his sister watching something on TV, and if Yuuta was home he’d drift down to join them, lured by the smell of food and the sound of laughter. When he peeks a few minutes later, Tezuka isn’t exactly laughing aloud, but there are tell-tale shakes of his shoulders that say Tezuka is enjoying himself. He returns to cooking, a smile on his lips.

There is a dangerously seductive side to their current arrangement. He’s seen the trap of it already, so the idea doesn’t terrify him as it did the night before. This scene of domesticity, of companionship, it’s exactly what he knew he would never be able to have with Tezuka. He has known it since he was fifteen. And ten years later, wondering about what-if is not going to do him any favors. Or Tezuka, for that matter. After all, this is another one of the things Tezuka might have had with someone else, one day. Maybe, if the more excitable gossip bears some grain of truth, Tezuka already had. He cannot imagine Tezuka in the dating scene, but surely there must have been someone?

Fuji shakes his head ruefully. That is precisely the type of Tezuka-related questions he avoided thinking about for years. And for years, he even managed to remain incurious, busy with his own life. Or perhaps distracted is the more correct word. Before, the mere thought of terming his life as a distraction would have angered him. He likes his life, and he can say that honestly without the defensiveness that once might have accompanied those words. He is alone by choice, and only in the last year or so, mostly because he has had no time. He also likes his work, and – although so far he hasn’t discussed his future plans with anyone else – he does want to continue independently once he has the means to start on his own. Future is something he looks forward to, and if he doesn’t have every detail planned out, even better.

Ten years. Really, he had thought he’d moved on. Not as completely as he’d thought. Fuji returns his attention to adding more water to the pot he’s stirring. Perhaps, he thinks sadly, it’s just as well that his chance has passed for good, and beyond choice.

~*~*~*~

When he finishes cooking, Tezuka surprises him by coming into the kitchen.

“Did Nasne stop playing?” he asks, scooping rice into a ceramic bowl and setting it down. He’d set up the Nasne to continue playing several episodes.

“No.”

The spoon and chopsticks are already set up on his place setting. He deposits a bowl of stew next to the rice. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“If you don't mind.”

So Tezuka has come to keep him company while he eats. It’s a sweet thought, really, but also a painful one. Without comment, he makes a cup of green tea for Tezuka and sets it down across the table. Tezuka sits on the chair opposite from him and murmurs, “Thank you for the food.”

After a moment to compose himself, Fuji echoes, “Thank you for the food,” and starts eating.

The stew is quite well done. His mother’s recipe, but altered to his taste – his version is spicier – and simmered to perfection. He doesn’t taste any of it.

“Can you smell any of the food?” Fuji asks, because he’s never been very good at self-preservation anyway.

Tezuka shakes his head. “No. I think my senses are restricted to temperature difference.”

“I’m sorry.” Fuji means that for multiple things. For their current situation. For their lack of any viable solution. For being the apparent cause of Tezuka being stuck here. He still doesn’t know what precisely holds Tezuka here, but he is unquestionably part of the reason.

Tezuka blinks, and almost smiles. “It’s all right.”

There is a short silence. Fuji forces himself to swallow another bite. Then another. When he can’t, anymore, he keeps his eyes on the table. “Is it?” he asks softly.

Tezuka doesn’t answer.

After minutes tick by in silence, Fuji stands up and gathers his dishes. He dumps the half-eaten food. He cannot summon any appetite. He doesn’t touch the tea that still sits before Tezuka.

“Can I have until tomorrow?” Tezuka asks, voice so quiet that Fuji has to strain to hear.

“Tomorrow?”

“You have to go back to work on Monday,” Tezuka says.

“It’s not like I plan to take a day off our research just because it’s Sunday,” Fuji says, puzzled.

Tezuka doesn’t need to breathe, not as an apparition. Probably. But Fuji can hear a short and sharp inhalation anyway. “I mean, may I have your time tomorrow? Not for research. Just one day.”

There is something ominous in the wording. Tezuka is asking him for his time, to spend as Tezuka wants, but only for one day. But short of coming up with a way to send Tezuka on right now, Fuji doesn’t have anything else to give him. Fuji lets out a careful breath. “Sure.” The smile that reluctantly comes to his lips is a little sad. “It’d be nice if you could come outside with me. This is a nice neighborhood. There’s a park nearby, and...” His chest feels too tight to continue. “I think you would like it.”

“I will try,” Tezuka says quietly.

By an unspoken agreement, they return to the living room after Fuji finishes washing and drying the dishes. They don’t return to their research. Instead, they watch the new episode of _Mecha 2 Iketeru_ together. They continue watching, random shows and dramas, and comment on which ones they like, which ones they don’t care for, which ones they would wait to see the next episode. They stay away from the news channels.

Fuji doesn’t remember when he fell asleep. He wakes to Tezuka’s voice, telling him to go to bed.

“What time is it?” he asks drowsily.

“Just after midnight. Go to bed,” Tezuka reiterates. “It’s cold. You’ll be sick if you sleep on the sofa.”

“Beautiful wife,” Fuji says, half sleepy, half amused. “Alright. I’m going to bed. Good night, Tezuka.”

“Good night, Fuji.” Tezuka’s voice is low and strangely gentle. Almost tender. Fuji ignores the spike of painful feeling, pushes it down. Lets Tezuka’s voice soothe him instead. He drifts to sleep much more easily than he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Fuji’s apartment: I actually had written this story without ever looking up proper layouts for Japanese apartments. When I was editing this chapter, I DID find a perfect reference that really does correspond very closely to the apartment layout I describe in the story (and coincidentally, located in real-life Shinjuku), so I guess I wasn’t too far off the base? And then of course my stupid dorky brain led to more research to see if a young architect indeed could afford something like that. The verdict seems to be possibly, but not terribly likely. Let’s just say for the story purpose that Fuji is on a really high-paying end of the salary scale. Given that he already manages projects, I think it’s plausible.


	6. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, Monday, will be posted on Monday, February 29, 2016, in honor of Fuji’s birthday. The reference for Fuji’s jacket mentioned in this chapter is a Loro Piana cashmere wool storm jacket from one of their 2015 collections. The first municipal park mentioned is fictional, but Shinjuku National Garden (Shinjuku Gyoen) exists in real life.

[Released Sunday, February 21, 2016]

_Chapter 6. Sunday_

As if in retaliation for the gorgeous days before, Sunday is cloudy. Not quite enough to rain; there are still patches of sunshine in between as the clouds pass overhead. Fuji doesn’t mind. A darker day means Tezuka appears clearer, less transparent. They finish breakfast and morning routine as if they’ve done it a hundred times before. Fuji dresses carefully, with a flattering shirt, soft sweater and beige slacks he usually reserves for going out. When he rejoins Tezuka in the living room, Tezuka is standing near the glass pane, looking out to the balcony.

“I can go outside,” Tezuka says without turning to look at him. “I was able to step outside the front door and walk in the hallway while you were sleeping.”

“Oh.” Fuji isn’t sure if Tezuka specifically tried because of what he said, but feels uncomfortable and weirdly flattered at the same time. “Do you want to go outside?”

“Yes.”

Of course. Anyone would after being trapped in one place for five whole days. And nights, since Tezuka can’t sleep. It must have felt like an eternity.

“Do you have any specific place you want to go?”

Tezuka finally turns to face him. For a fleeting moment Fuji feels self-conscious, but Tezuka takes time to look at him with what might be a flicker of appreciation. At least they are fairly well matched now. Not that anyone else will be able to see. Probably.

“I thought I’d ask you to choose,” Tezuka answers. “You mentioned the neighborhood is nice.”

“I did. Let’s walk to the park, and decide where to go from there.”

He grabs his jacket – a beautiful gray wool and cashmere coat his sister gave him as a birthday present – and a scarf. After a moment of thought, he takes his satchel and camera as well. Finally, he chooses a pair of comfortable but stylish shoes. He opens the door, and steps outside.

Tezuka, as promised, steps next to him easily. Not quite walking, given Fuji still can’t see Tezuka’s feet, but close enough that he can pretend they are walking together. No one, neighbors and strangers alike, spares a glance at Tezuka, which confirms Fuji’s theory that only _he_ can see his otherworldly companion. For his part, Tezuka doesn’t seem to notice or care. Fuji walks slowly so Tezuka can look around as they go. And Tezuka does, unselfconscious and curious. The park is only fifteen minutes’ walk from Fuji’s apartment, but it takes them longer to get there. Fuji finds he doesn’t mind.

The park is not as crowded as usual, probably because of the cold and cloudy weather. They stroll through the pathways at a leisurely pace. When Fuji stops, it’s not a conscious choice, yet somehow he’s led them to the clearing where he’d taken the photographs of a young skateboarder before.

“This is where you took the pictures of the boy with skateboard.”

Tezuka has always been observant. Besides, there were other shots of the park he’d taken the same day, so Tezuka probably recognizes the place. “Yes. Over there, near the steps. We’re actually standing right where I took the pictures.”

“So I thought.”

All this should feel a bit weird, Fuji thinks. Not the least because of how much this feels like a date.

Because of how much this feels like what might have been.

Fuji looks down, feels his shoulder slump a little. “I didn’t tell you that I am sorry,” he says softly.

Tezuka looks at him, and the quiet, measuring gaze is so familiar, it makes Fuji’s heart clench. “You did. Just not why.”

Problem with Tezuka, even one without his memories, is that Tezuka has always seen through him too well. Fuji’s breath catches in his throat, and it takes effort to speak in a normal voice. “A lot of things,” he admits. “But starting with when I stopped talking to you.”

Tezuka doesn’t press him. Actually, in all their time together Tezuka never has, except for that one memorable conversation in the rain after his interrupted match with Echizen. That was probably the closest thing the two of them had had to a serious argument with each other.

“When we played our final match, I had a realization. That if I wanted us to stay the way we were, I’d have to choose tennis. And I wasn’t ready to choose tennis for life.” Tezuka loved tennis most of all. Fuji loved tennis too, but saw an infinite array of possibilities before him, and couldn’t settle for one certainty if it meant sacrificing all other chances. “I wasn’t sure then. I’m still not.” Tezuka doesn’t say anything, patiently waiting for him to continue. “I didn’t want to choose something I might regret later on.”

“Making that choice would mean changing yourself,” Tezuka quotes back with an unerring accuracy, damn his excellent memory. “And for a wrong reason.”

Fuji nods with a rueful quirk of his mouth. “Yes.”

“I was the reason?” Tezuka sounds odd. Like he can’t quite wrap his mind around the concept.

Fuji nods. “I would have chosen tennis because I wanted to stay in your life, not because I was sure I wanted it for myself. And choosing my life’s direction based on someone else would have been wrong.” Fuji doesn’t regret his decision, either. He is convinced even now that he was right. “I don’t regret that. A person can’t live for someone else. I can’t, not ever.”

Tezuka regards him with an inscrutable expression. “What do you regret?”

“Not telling you the truth,” Fuji says. The answer, the same one he’s been forced to come to terms with the last few days, feels as anticlimactic and selfish as can be when he puts it into words. “You would have had no room in your life for a Fuji Syuusuke who doesn’t play tennis. And I couldn’t continue as we were, either, because—” Fuji is about to continue, to tell Tezuka why it hurt too much to stay in contact, clinging to their fading connection, but Tezuka makes an odd gesture, more of an aborted movement really, and he stops. “Tezuka?”

Tezuka is tense. When Fuji tries to speak again, Tezuka stops him with a quick jerk of his head. “I’d like to continue our walk,” Tezuka says, and there is a strange, almost stilted quality to his voice. And the request to change topic isn’t even disguised in any way. It’s not anger, as far as Fuji can sense, that keeps Tezuka’s shoulders stiff as he starts moving again. At any rate, Fuji did promise him the whole day. So he follows without objection.

~*~*~*~

They continue their tour through the park. They talk about other things. They detour to a café so Fuji can get a hot drink. Fuji buys an extra one, and they sit on a bench together while Fuji drinks his hot chocolate. Tezuka curls a translucent hand around the cup Fuji bought for him, and doesn’t say anything. After Fuji finishes his drink, they sit in silence and watch the fountain.

“What is it?” Fuji finally asks.

Tezuka gives him a look that is part resigned, part fond. “I’m selfish,” he says without preamble.

“What?” That is so far out on the left field, Fuji doesn’t even know how to parse that answer.

Tezuka regards him seriously. “Earlier, by the clearing, when you were telling me about the time you stopped talking to me,” he says, and hesitates. “I had a very selfish urge. And if I let you finish, I would have to admit the truth.” Tezuka’s hand doesn’t go through the paper cup, fingers merely caressing its side. “But this is not fair. Least of all to you.”

“You lost me,” Fuji admits honestly.

“You were going to tell me why you stopped talking to me entirely. You said we were close. Back then, if you told me you weren’t going to continue with tennis, I might have been disappointed, but I wouldn’t have wanted us to stop being friends. Am I right?”

Again, there is that dull pain, but it isn’t a sharp stab like he would have expected once. “Yes.”

“But that wasn’t what you wanted, so you stopped speaking to me. After ten years, when I suddenly came to you, it bothered you. Yet you tried to help me anyway. And I...” Tezuka actually lets out an audible sigh. Which is novel enough that Fuji just stares at him, speechless. “I should have told you. I had already figured out why I came here. It wasn’t about something I missed from our past. Simply, it was you.”

“I’m still not following,” Fuji says cautiously. He has a feeling he does know what Tezuka is getting at, it’s just – not what he expected. Not what he is prepared to hear.

“I think I just wanted to see you,” Tezuka says, and his voice is utterly honest. Then again, Tezuka never was the type to pull a punch, even to himself. “Because you were the one part of my life I regretted. I probably couldn’t figure out why you left me. And my memories, what I already knew – they couldn’t help me. So I came to you like this. So that I can understand, without my memories of the past clouding my sight.”

It takes Fuji a while to find his voice. “Since... Since when did you—?”

“Friday,” Tezuka answers with the same straightforwardness, no attempt at artifice. “I suspected then. Yesterday, I was sure. But figuring out the truth didn’t make me pass on. I was afraid if you told me – what I suspect you want to tell me – then _that_ would.”

“I don’t _want_ you to leave.” Fuji is aghast at the words that escape him uncontrolled. He snaps his mouth shut, and swallows a few times, frantically grasping for composure, for self-control. But the words spill out of him, like blood from an open wound, and for the life of him, he can’t stop. “I do admit it. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I regret it now. I wish I took the chance to tell you how I felt. Now you’re telling me it really would have made a difference, and.” He can’t continue. And now it’s a sharp stab, burning like a spear of ice driven through the pit of his stomach. Tezuka’s hand leaves the cup of hot chocolate and carefully cradles the side of his face, but Fuji cannot feel the touch at all. He closes his eyes and struggles to draw breath against the shard of glass lodged in his throat.

“I want to stay,” Tezuka says, and Fuji would never have believed he was capable of sounding this gentle, this kind. Just now that only makes him ache more. 

_I want to stay with you. I want you._

“But now, it would be unfair to you.”

He nearly says he doesn’t care, but swallows the words just in time. Fuji opens his eyes, and sees brown eyes staring into his, and oh, he was wrong before. That smile Tezuka had on his face, once after Seigaku won the national title and once after their match in Germany – that smile isn’t the most beautiful he’d witnessed after all. Nothing can compare to this smile, with Tezuka looking at him like he is the only one in Tezuka’s whole world. And right now, this is true: he is the only one who can see Tezuka. Holding on to Tezuka like this isn’t fair to Tezuka, either.

“You’re leaving,” Fuji says. It’s not a question.

“Tomorrow,” Tezuka answers steadily. “I think I can, now.”

Drawing each breath hurts. It’s like his entire skin is scraped raw and the slightest pressure hurts. “Is that why you asked me for today?”

Tezuka’s smile takes on a rueful tint. “I didn’t want to leave without at least one date.”

One day. That’s all they have. Fuji cannot quite conjure up a smile. “You could have just asked me.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes. And asking you would have been unkind. I would have preferred to leave you without disrupting your life any more than I already have.”

Of course Tezuka thought like that. It’s like he didn’t know Tezuka at all. He should have known better than to presume he knew Tezuka’s heart, let alone every path their lives could have taken. True, Tezuka may or may not have accepted his feelings ten years ago, and maybe they still wouldn’t have had a life together. But he made the decision alone, to sever their ties without saying anything, and now it has cost both of them the chance to ever find out.

“This was my fault anyway. I’d deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” The tenderness in Tezuka’s eyes makes it harder to breathe, but the ache in his throat is easing. “I don’t remember, Fuji. Even if I did, I don’t think I could tell you how I would have reacted back then if you’d told me. Maybe we still wouldn’t have worked out. Either way, we can’t change what’s in the past.” They are almost close enough to kiss. Fuji’s heart hammers in his chest, and he’s sure his face must be turning red. But he can’t tear himself away. He doesn’t want to. “Don’t blame yourself for making a choice for yourself. I agree with you: I think you were right to choose as you did. Your work is beautiful. No matter what you chose your work would have been beautiful. I’m glad I had a chance to know this side of you.”

“Did you—” This is a question he should have asked ten years ago, and asking it now is unjust, but he cannot help himself. “Would you have wanted to be a part of my life even without tennis between us?”

“Knowing what I know, yes.” Tezuka’s expression turns wry at the edges. “The pictures of that skateboarder made me feel a little jealous. Your pictures showed me the life that you’ve lived, and the subjects you’ve studied. I envisioned myself in those shots, and how it would have felt to have you study me the same way. I think I would have liked it.”

“I would have liked it, too.” The words are easier to say now that they’ve let everything out in the open. “I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

“It’s all right. I shouldn’t have let you.” Tezuka looks a bit cross, but at himself. “If I was going to regret it enough to come back for you, I should have held on.”

What does one say to being the only regret left in someone else’s life? Fuji manages a wistful smile this time. “I wouldn’t have made it easy,” he reminds Tezuka. “We’ve made a mess of it, haven’t we?”

“A little.” Tezuka’s lips curve into one of his barely-there smiles. “Maybe more than a little.”

There is a short silence. Not an uncomfortable one, Fuji thinks. More like the moment after a showdown in a game of poker, with a bittersweet relief of having everything laid out between them. There is nothing more to hide, and precious little time left.

“We still have the rest of the day for our date,” Fuji says. “And I fully expect a kiss goodnight. That’s the traditional end to all first dates.”

Amusement flickers in Tezuka’s eyes, even if it’s still fringed in regret. “Understood.”

An idea occurs to Fuji. Tezuka isn’t the only one who wants memories out of this experience, after all. “Hey, Tezuka.”

“Yes?”

“Can I take pictures of you?”

Tezuka gives him a quizzical look. “I doubt I will be visible in your pictures.”

“That’s all right. I will remember.”

“Are you sure?” Tezuka asks, very gently. “I don’t want to leave you with even more regrets.”

“I think both of us will have them regardless. Still, I’m grateful for a chance for some memories of you. Even if it’s just one day.”

Tezuka’s eyes soften. “All right.”

Fuji smiles at him. “No time like now to start,” he says, and digs for the collapsible tripod he always carries in his satchel. He sets up the digital camera, puts it on a timer, and returns to his seat. He leans closer to Tezuka, the two paper cups between them, one empty, one full, and murmurs to him. “Smile. This is our first picture as a couple.”

Tezuka’s quiet chuckle is in his ear when the camera goes off, taking several shots in a row.

~*~*~*~

Fuji frames his pictures as he normally would. Portraits, candid shots, crowd shots, landscapes with human subjects, time-lapse shots. In all of them, Tezuka is there, faint but present behind the lens. Fuji commits each to memory. When he sees the pictures, even if no one else does, he will see Tezuka in every one of them. He will remember.

They go to Fuji’s favorite bistro for lunch. Then they spend the afternoon in Shinjuku National Garden. Chrysanthemum season started early this year to match an unusually rapid advent of autumn, so what they’re seeing is a little past the prime, but neither of them minds. Near sunset, they sit near a quiet spot at the lakeside, where cherry blossoms bloom magnificently in spring. Foliage has turned from scarlet to rust, with splashes of gold turning to light brown, many of the trees stripped at the tip of the crown. And the cloudy day makes every color seem even darker. Fuji can almost laugh at the irony. Of course their first and last date will take place in the worst time possible, with less than ideal conditions everywhere. But Tezuka seems content, and that’s more important to him. The afternoon light is ruddy, the sun already beginning to set, and Fuji looks away with a quick breath. Tomorrow, Tezuka will be gone. Tomorrow will come in a matter of hours. It’s stupid and irrational and pointless, to wish tomorrow away. He does anyway.

“Fuji.”

Distracted by his thoughts, it takes Fuji a moment to realize Tezuka is trying to get his attention. “I’m sorry. What is it?”

“I want to take a picture of you.”

“Okay. Where?”

“Here is fine. Can you help me set up?”

Fuji nods, and stands to set up the camera. It takes a dozen attempts to get just the right angle and composition Tezuka wants. Of all things, Fuji muses with humor, he hadn’t expected Tezuka to be a fussy photographer. Once Tezuka is satisfied with the frame, Fuji situates himself and poses until Tezuka gives him the okay, then briefly returns to set up the timer. This time, when Fuji slides back to the desired distance and position, Tezuka doesn’t join him, and remains behind the camera instead.

The daylight is fading quickly. The gray clouds are painted flame red. The sun is minutes from setting completely, a quarter of an hour at best. The light will probably be terrible, but Fuji’s camera has night setting. It will be able to capture this shot. Fuji tries to smile for the camera, but finds that he cannot.

“Fuji.” Tezuka’s eyes hold him easily, patient and understanding. “It’s all right, Fuji.”

This is what heartbreak feels like, Fuji thinks numbly. And it’s aptly named. The camera goes off three times in quick intervals.

Fuji doesn’t move. He closes his eyes and just breathes.

“Fuji.”

Tezuka sounds close, like he’s standing right in front of Fuji. If Fuji tries, he thinks he can almost feel faint tingling on his skin where Tezuka’s hand brushes his cheek. Tezuka’s touch would have been slow and gentle, fingertips warm and probably callused, learning the contours of Fuji’s skin for the first time. A quiet sob escapes Fuji.

“Thank you.”

His eyelashes are moist when Fuji opens his eyes. Tezuka is standing before him, less than an arm’s length away, his brown eyes impossibly soft. He knows a tear has escaped by the cooling sensation on his cheek. Tezuka’s fingertips can’t brush away his tears, not now, but they cradle his face with an unspeakable tenderness. Then, Tezuka leans forward, eyes sliding closed, and at the very last minute before their lips touch, Fuji closes his own eyes.

Their first kiss tastes like chilled air and tears.


	7. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Fuji Syuusuke! As promised, the last chapter. I hope you’ve enjoyed this story. Despite being a surprise project, I enjoyed writing it immensely. Thank you for reading!

[Released Monday, February 29, 2016. Happy Birthday, Fuji Syuusuke!]

_Chapter 7. Monday_

Fuji wakes to sharp beeping sound from his phone.

The sky is still fully dark outside. His phone screen shows five eleven in the morning before going blank. His last memory is of talking to Tezuka in the living room as the night grew darker around them. He sits up and looks around. He’d gone to sleep right on the sofa, go figure, and his back and neck protest – his sofa is comfortable, but not _that_ comfortable – and the air is chillier in the living room than in his bedroom. At least he’d had the foresight to bring out his comforter and pillow last night.

Tezuka is nowhere to be found.

Fuji doesn’t call aloud. He gets up and pads silently to the kitchen and turns on the light. He goes to his bedroom next to turn on the light, then the bathroom, his office, and finally returns to the living room.

He is utterly and completely alone.

He sinks down on the sofa and stares out to the balcony, which is still shrouded in pre-dawn darkness. Nothing but the cold empty air. Fuji leans back and closes his eyes.

Sharp beeps sound from his phone again, alerting him he has missed messages. Come to think of it, he’d left his phone behind yesterday when he went out, not wanting any interruptions. He probably has messages from his family, and maybe even work. He’d been distracted for an entire week, after all.

Fuji scowls in the phone’s general direction, then picks it up. He should at least dismiss the alerts so they won’t continue to demand his attention. He swipes the phone awake and scrolls through the phone’s status updates. Nine missed calls. Sixteen missed messages. That’s actually way more than he’d expected. Frowning, Fuji flips to the missed call history. Maybe there was an emergency at work. But no, seven of the nine calls are from Eiji. One from Oishi. One from Taka-san.

Now worried, Fuji checks his missed text messages.

_Fuji why are u not answring ur phone call me back_ , writes Eiji in the first message. _Srsly wtf where are u???? are u okay???_ reads the second one. The next three messages are all in the same vein, asking where he is, why isn’t he calling back. Then, Eiji’s next message is cut for length into two: _Come on Fuji Oishi says even Ochibi came I know u guys had some kinda problm but srsly this is too much wtf Fuji come on now how longg has this been going on Oishi says inui drpped inn Thursdyy an even INUI was surprised u_ and _diddn’t come its not like u to be this mean come on u have to visit ur the only one who hasnt com around if I’d known i’d have dragged u hear with me today omfg srssly wut even_.

Next two messages are from Oishi. _Hi Fuji, it’s Oishi. I’m sorry if Eiji’s been spamming you. Eiji, Taka-san and I are visiting together today and Eiji got a little upset when I mentioned you haven’t been in touch._ Then: _I know you must be really busy, but if you could come visit just once, it would mean a lot. Tezuka’s parents remember you, you know. They asked about you._

Fuji’s heart sinks at the mention of Tezuka’s family. The pain flares back to life, chasing away the numbness he’d felt when he first awoke. He scrolls past the other messages until he hits the last one. It’s from Taka-san.

_Hey Fuji. Um. I know Eiji’s probably sent you like a hundred texts by now. Sorry to add to the chorus, but...I’d like to think we’re a team for life. Could you maybe come by just once? Please? I think everyone would like it very much, and so would I._

He should go, he knows. He feels guilty for leaving this for so long, but in his defense, he was quite distracted for the last week by none other than Tezuka himself. He will go. If nothing else, he should properly say his last goodbye, and... The last picture that Tezuka took of him. Tezuka would like to have it. He should take it to Tezuka for a final send-off.

He goes to his office to print a copy of the picture. To his surprise, the lighting is not as bad as he feared. His face stares back at him, framed by red-golden light reflected on the lake. The expression on his face makes him look away immediately. He looks so naked in it, without any defenses, no mask at all. The picture itself is quite well composed, definitely worth all the fuss Tezuka put him through, but just a brief glance at it makes his stomach turn, bringing back all the feelings of loss and pain and regret he’d felt at that moment.

He sets it aside, and opens his email to type a quick message to work. He pleads family emergency although he doesn’t provide details, which won’t endear him to his bosses any, but it cannot be helped. Then, he goes through his text messages again, scanning for any other messages from Oishi, the likeliest person to provide directions on where and when to visit. As he thought, there are two more. He scrolls to the first of the two.

_If you want to drop by, Tezuka is at Tokyo Medical University Hospital, Room 1421. Visiting hours are 9-6. Tezuka’s mother is usually here every day._

Fuji stops cold, heart leaping to his throat. Hospital. Visiting hours. His hand is unsteady as he reads Oishi’s next message.

_If you and Tezuka...still haven’t resolved everything, it’s not like he’d know. He hasn’t woken up even once since Monday. If you can, Fuji, please come and visit._

Vertigo.

Fuji sinks back in his office chair, fighting dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. Monday. That was the day of the accident. He knew that from the short breaking news alert he’d seen. Tezuka hasn’t woken up since then.

Still alive. Breath escapes him in a whoosh, the sheer relief enough to sap all strength from his body. Fuji trembles, disbelief warring with hope. Tezuka is still alive.

Then, a cold knot of fear freezes his heart. Tezuka was here. Tezuka believed he was a ghost, already dead, and by last night, Tezuka had been ready to move on, to afterlife or wherever ghosts go. Before thought quite catches up with him, Fuji fumbles for a number, and presses send.

Eight interminable rings later, a sleepy voice answers him. “Hello?”

“Oishi,” Fuji breathes. With his free hand, he scans news sites on his iMac. All news of Tezuka is at least a few days old. Car accident, Japan’s golden tennis star injured. Receiving treatment in Tokyo Medical University Hospital. Nothing recent. “It’s Fuji. Sorry I’m—” He can’t quite negotiate breathing and thinking at the same time. “When was the last time you saw Tezuka?” he demands, politeness be damned. If Tezuka really moved on, thinking himself dead, and his body still alive... Fuji shakes his head. No. He can’t let that happen.

“Wha— Fuji?” Oishi sounds dumb with shock, but Oishi has always been a resilient sort. He rallies in an instant. “Good to hear from you. Eiji and I were a bit worried yesterday. As for Tezuka, I saw him yesterday evening. There were no changes the last I heard.”

“He’s in a coma?” Fuji asks, nearly breathless. He’s already figuring out routes to the hospital. “Still?”

“As far as I know,” Oishi confirms. “Fuji, what’s wrong?”

There is no time to explain. If Oishi will even believe him, which is doubtful. “I have to see him right now.”

“Visiting hours—”

“I know. I still have to go. Oishi, can you...” It’s silly and childish of him, wanting a friend there for support without even giving any sort of explanation. And Oishi has every right to condemn him for his absence until now.

“You want me there?” Oishi asks gently. “Sure, no problem. Besides, I forgot to tell you.” There is a thread of sly humor in Oishi’s voice. “I work at Tokyo University Hospital. I started there a month ago but didn’t get a chance to tell you. I could probably help you bypass the visiting hour thing. I’ll meet you at the hospital whenever you make it.”

“Half an hour,” Fuji says immediately. “I’m sorry, Oishi. Thank you.” He means it with all his heart.

Bless Oishi, he doesn’t even ask. “Not at all. See you in half an hour.”

~*~*~*~

Fuji doesn’t remember how he makes it to the hospital. All he is thinking, _praying_ , is for Tezuka to realize, to come back. He doesn’t care if Tezuka doesn’t remember the last week, if Tezuka is angry with him for severing all contacts ten years ago. If Tezuka is still alive, if Tezuka lives, then Fuji still has a chance to make things right again.

It’s still dark when he gets off the taxi at the Tokyo Medical University Hospital front entrance. He probably overpaid the taxi fare, but he can’t bring himself to care. Oishi is waiting for him, as promised, in his scrubs and white coat. He comes to clasp Fuji’s hand as if nothing happened.

“Oishi,” Fuji says, and cannot manage another word, so grateful for Oishi’s presence.

“Come on. I’ll sneak you inside. Mind you, it’s a good thing Tezuka’s mother went home last night, or there might have been some questions,” Oishi says, but his tone is playful. He is transparently and genuinely glad to have Fuji here no matter what else happened. And Oishi being Oishi, he doesn’t even ask why Fuji didn’t bother to ask after Tezuka for a whole week, then suddenly called Oishi at the crack of dawn and demanded to see Tezuka right away. Instead, Oishi leads him through the maze of corridors and elevators, straight to Tezuka’s room.

His knees almost buckle when the room door opens to reveal Tezuka sleeping with various machines beeping around him.

Then, his relief is swiftly replaced by worry. Where is Tezuka?

“Do you need a moment alone?” Oishi asks. Kind, gentle Oishi, so undeservedly good to him. Fuji gazes up at him with breathless gratitude, and Oishi actually looks startled. Then he composes himself, and says, understandingly, “I’ll be outside, then. Take your time. Come get me if you need me.” Then Oishi steps out of the room, leaving him alone with Tezuka.

“Tezuka,” Fuji whispers to the sleeping Tezuka. Cautiously, half-fearing this is all an illusion, he walks closer to the bed and reaches out to touch Tezuka’s cheek. Tezuka’s skin is cool to the touch, but not icy. The intravenous drip is on his right hand, so Fuji reaches for his left hand. “Please, come back. You’re still alive. You need to come back.”

_Please,_ he says in a fervent prayer to anyone who might be listening. _Please let him come back. I haven’t even had a chance to tell him properly._

Still holding Tezuka’s left hand, Fuji leans over, looking over the beloved face, changed yet familiar, and presses his lips against Tezuka’s.

Their second kiss tastes faintly like antiseptic.

Tezuka doesn’t stir.

Fuji slumps in a chair beside Tezuka’s bedside with a frustrated huff of breath. It figures romantic clichés don’t actually work in real life. The heart rate monitor continues to beep placidly, never changing its rhythm.

“God damn it, Tezuka,” Fuji growls. “I can’t believe you’d dump me after only one date. If I’m really the only regret you have, at least stick around for a second one!”

In the wake of his outburst silence is deafening, broken only by the steady beeps from the monitor. Suddenly feeling drained, Fuji puts his face in his hands, and sighs. The beeping sound grows quicker, then slows, then hastens again. A hoarse sound makes Fuji look up.

Tezuka stares back at him, blinking then squinting. “...Fuji...?” he says, his voice nearly inaudible. The breathing tubes in his nose probably don’t help the dry throat, Fuji’s mind notes clinically, but he cannot move. He’s frozen in his seat. Tezuka frowns. “...Where...”

“In the hospital,” Fuji says woodenly. His mind is careening too wildly to make any sense of the emotions going through him right now. His words come in automation, no conscious thoughts behind them. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The other car. I was in an accident.” The second part is a question.

“Yes.”

“You...came to visit?”

“You don’t remember.” It’s a conclusion that leaps to his throat before his thoughts catch up with him. He prayed for Tezuka to come back no matter what the cost, after all. It shouldn’t hurt this much to lose the last week. It’s a small price to pay to have Tezuka alive and well. “I came to give you something,” Fuji says softly. He pulls out the print of the picture Tezuka took at the Shinjuku National Garden, the last picture of their date together, and places it on the table next to Tezuka’s bed. “The rest – can wait.”

“You’re leaving.” It’s not a question this time.

“I’ll come back,” Fuji promises.

Tezuka’s lips purse. In his disoriented state, Tezuka hasn’t even questioned why Fuji is here when it’s obviously not visiting hours. When his mind catches up, Tezuka will remember to be angry about the last ten years. It’s okay, Fuji reminds himself. He can take anger. He’d take it over Tezuka being gone anytime.

“Really?” Tezuka’s voice is hoarse from disuse and weak, but that is definitely a challenge. Fuji winces inwardly at the underlying bitterness, but plows on.

“I promise.” He stands up on shaky legs, and reaches down to squeeze Tezuka’s hand once. “Rest. Try not to go anywhere this time.”

A confused frown creases Tezuka’s brows. Fuji smiles at him, and knows his smile is hopelessly fond, nothing like his usual teasing smile, but doesn’t care. He pats Tezuka’s hand, and forces himself to let go and move away from the bed.

Outside the door, he finds Oishi nodding off in a chair. Poor Oishi must have dragged himself out of his bed at this ungodly hour solely at Fuji’s behest. For Oishi, it has always been enough that a friend needs him, and he never needs a reason. None of them is ever going to deserve Oishi, but for starters, Fuji makes a mental memo to get Oishi something nice as a thank-you. “Oishi,” Fuji calls quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder. Oishi startles awake. “Tezuka just woke up. You might want to go check on him.”

“Fuji – what – Tezuka? Really? Wait are you – hold on, just wait here. I’ll be—”

Fuji interrupts him as gently as only he knows how. “I’ll wait. Go on.”

Oishi rushes into Tezuka’s room. Fuji can hear snatches of conversation, mostly Oishi’s heartfelt, relieved voice, tearful and happy at the same time. After a moment, Oishi comes out, dabbing at suspicious moisture on his face. “I’m going to call the nurse and his attending physician. They’ll have to check him out, but he seems alert and oriented. So far, so good. Thank God.”

Fuji smiles at him, sharing the relief and gladness. “Go on. I’ll come back and visit later. During proper visiting hours, even.”

“If you have to visit off hours, just call me,” Oishi offers. “I’m so glad you came, Fuji.”

“I’ll apologize to you at another time,” Fuji answers. “When I’m not keeping you from your work. Go on, Oishi. Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later. Maybe we can have lunch together and catch up. Can I call you later?”

“Yes. I took the day off work.”

“Great. See you soon, Fuji!”

“See you soon,” Fuji echoes, but knows Oishi’s attention is already at his task, a doctor to his bones. He peeks into Tezuka’s room, and catches a glimpse of Tezuka’s hand, reaching for the bedside table. Reassured of Tezuka’s continued consciousness, Fuji takes his leave.

~*~*~*~

Around noon, Fuji calls Oishi and treats him to lunch at a fancy Mediterranean restaurant. Over the meal Oishi informs him that the flurry of tests has died down, and Tezuka will likely be left alone to rest during the afternoon. Tezuka is doing well, Oishi happily tells him, and barring any complication, will be released from the hospital soon. Tezuka had come to the hospital with no significant injuries, it was just that the doctors became concerned when Tezuka’s unconscious state continued uninterrupted for an entire week.

After lunch, Fuji visits Tezuka’s room with a bouquet of flowers and – on a whim – a teddy bear bearing a heart that says “Get Well Soon.” He runs into Tezuka’s mother just outside the room, and she looks startled to see him.

“Fuji-kun,” she says, and manages a smile despite looking tired and worn. She looks older than Fuji remembers, but is just as elegant and poised as ever. “It’s been a while. I’m glad to see you.”

“Please forgive me for being so slow to visit,” Fuji says, bowing courteously. “How is he?”

“Doing well. He regained consciousness just this morning, so you came at a good time.” She knocks and calls, “Kunimitsu? You have a visitor.” Before she opens the door, she turns to give him a small but warm smile. “I hoped you would visit. He doesn’t say much, but I think he’s missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Fuji answers earnestly. “I will make it up to him. I promise.”

Tezuka’s mother nods, and opens the door for him. “Go on. I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on. Tell him I’ve gone outside to get something to drink, and will be back soon.”

There is nothing to do but go inside. When he enters, Tezuka looks up, and briefly looks surprised. He can’t delay any longer, so Fuji may as well open the conversation. “Good afternoon.”

“Fuji.” Tezuka is wearing glasses now. His voice is steadier, stronger. The angles of his face are sharper, more adult, but his eyes haven’t changed at all. “It wasn’t a dream this morning, then.”

“No,” Fuji says, and comes to offer the bouquet and the teddy bear. Tezuka gives them a wary look, like he expects them to explode in his hands or something, which is a little insulting. If he was going to give Tezuka something that explodes, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring it in person and stand there waiting for it to go off.

“Thank you,” Tezuka says warily, and puts them on the table next to his bed. “I wasn’t sure, after you left. Only the picture you left behind made me think it was real.”

“I figured you’d have a busy morning, and I would have been in the way,” Fuji explains. Which is the truth. Also, he needed some time to think. Chiefly, to figure out how much to tell Tezuka about what happened in the past one week. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” The answer is immediate and automatic, like he’s had to repeat is a hundred times. “The doctors don’t want me walking around unattended,” Tezuka adds with just enough hint of irritation that Fuji cannot help chuckling.

“You were in a coma for a week. It’s enough to cause anyone concern.”

“Anyone?” The question is sharp, to the point, and categorically Tezuka. And expected, given Tezuka has no memory of what happened while he was comatose in body and wandering in spirit.

“Yes,” Fuji replies, and sobers. “I have a lot to tell you.” Where to start? This is a chance he didn’t think he would get just last night. He has no intention of letting it go. But Tezuka with his memories is also Tezuka with an injured pride, and – now Fuji is sure – a wounded heart. Fuji knows his own reaction would have been less than accepting had their places been exchanged. “For starters, I’m sorry I stayed out of contact for so long.”

Tezuka’s gaze is as penetrating as ever. But instead of asking why Fuji stopped all contact, Tezuka asks, surprisingly mild, “What happened to you?”

“A lot of things, most recent of which I’m not sure you’d believe,” Fuji says, a hint of irony in his voice.

“The picture you left me.”

“That’s part of the reason I came today,” Fuji concedes. “Something happened to me recently that made me realize I was wrong to do that. If it’s not too late, I wanted to apologize. To see if—” To see if they can salvage something. To try and see whether they can take the chance they’d glimpsed at in the past week, the chance that they both thought lost. For a rare instance, Fuji feels at a loss for words.

“I was...” Tezuka trails off, then speaks again. “...Upset, at first, when you stopped talking to me. Then, I was angry. And confused. We were close. I didn’t think I’d done anything to make you angry, and you never gave me a reason.” Hurt, too. Fuji can read between lines enough to know that much. “Eventually, I decided I didn’t care.”

He deserved that, Fuji supposes, but can’t help feeling a sliver of panic. Tezuka is patient, but isn’t the type to forgive easily when wronged. Even if Fuji realized he wants to try again, Tezuka may not want to, with the memory of his time as a spirit lost.

“Who took that picture, Fuji?”

That isn’t a question Fuji expected. He stares at Tezuka in silence, voice frozen in his throat.

“I looked at it. In it, you looked...” Tezuka’s jaws tense. “I was angry. More furious than I’d ever been with you. I thought about it all morning. And I realized no matter what happened, I was far angrier that someone made you look like that.”

Fuji can nearly feel the ghost of sensation of a hand on his cheek, slow and gentle, and can almost taste the chilled air and tears on his lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs, to the apparition who has haunted him for a week, and to the Tezuka of the present who looks at him with undeserved kindness still.

It takes Fuji a few minutes to compose himself enough to speak again. His smile is wry, a little sad at the edges, but real. “The person who took that picture... Well, he broke my heart, but he doesn’t know that. I think I can forgive him for it. I was in the wrong, too.” Tezuka looks skeptical, but doesn’t comment, accepting – as always – Fuji’s answer. “Am I forgiven?” he asks, and knows the question isn’t quite fair, but doesn’t care this time. He’s never been particularly selfless, anyway. Tezuka knows that better than most.

“That depends,” Tezuka says judiciously, “on whether you intend to stay this time.”

“I will. I promise.”

“I will hold you to that,” Tezuka warns.

“I hope you will,” Fuji answers just as seriously. “After you’re released from the hospital, can we meet for dinner? To catch up?”

Tezuka’s answer is unhurried and unequivocal. “Yes.” A hint of crease enters his brows. “Isn’t today a workday?”

“I took today off,” Fuji replies. It’s so like Tezuka to worry about that.

The pause is so minute that anyone who doesn’t know Tezuka as well as Fuji would have missed the flash of hesitation. “Can you stay longer?”

“All afternoon, but I think you’d get sick of me,” Fuji says, a hint of their old teasing banter back in his voice. “While we’re on that subject, Oishi was undeservedly nice to me today. But then again I did bribe him with free lunch. I doubt Eiji will be so easy to placate. He was upset that I didn’t come visit you sooner.”

“Kikumaru was convinced for a long time that I did something to push you away,” Tezuka says, and doesn’t sound annoyed about that, merely truthful. “He’s more likely to be on your side over anyone else’s.”

Fuji huffs. “Right now, hardly. He called me seven times yesterday. And left me eleven messages, not counting the voice messages. He’ll be furious with me.”

Tezuka nods solemnly. They are both well accustomed to Kikumaru’s moods. Fuji will need some serious bribes to get back in Kikumaru’s good graces after that snub. “Oishi said everyone came by. Even Echizen. Although, I was asleep through all of it.”

Paris Masters had finished on the eighth of November. Barclays ATP World Tour Finals had just begun yesterday on the fifteenth. For Echizen to visit during such a tight schedule, he must have been worried. “Echizen must be missing you terribly right about now,” he says lightly, and doesn’t fight to keep the affection coloring his voice.

“I’m sure he will live,” Tezuka replies dryly, and Fuji lets out a startled laugh. It’s not like Tezuka to make a glib riposte like that. But then again, Fuji reminds himself, he is really thinking of Tezuka as he was ten years ago. He now has a chance to know the Tezuka from the last ten years he missed, the Tezuka of the present, and – he hopes – the Tezuka in the future. “You’ve followed his career.”

“And yours,” Fuji allows. “Your Wimbledon final was amazing.”

Tezuka isn’t the type to look away, but there is a flash of discomfort in his gaze, like he’s feeling a little embarrassed, maybe. “Thank you.” After a moment of hesitation he adds, “I saw your works.”

“My works?” Fuji is genuinely surprised. “How did you find out about them?”

Now it’s definitely embarrassment coloring Tezuka’s gaze. “I didn’t keep in touch with you. I kept in touch with everyone else, even Kikumaru. And I think Inui’s kept a detailed file on each of us even after we all went separate ways. Force of habit, I suppose. He forwarded me some pictures and newspaper clippings.”

Presumably at Tezuka’s request. Fuji feels flattered, but also not a little bit creeped out. “You know, it’s normal for people to follow the careers of sports superstars like you and Echizen. It isn’t as usual to follow a start-up architect working for someone else.”

“I know.” Tezuka sounds uncomfortable, but being Tezuka, won’t deny the truth.

Fuji rewards him with a warm smile. “But I’m flattered. Any particular ones you liked?”

“I like all your works. But I’m partial to the circular kindergarten. And the sloped wooden house in the forest. I also liked the house with the roof and the ladders.”

Fuji can’t help but laugh. Incidentally, those are same particular favorites picked out by the amnesiac apparition Tezuka. And his own as well.

“Those are my favorite projects, too,” Fuji confesses. “I can bring you a portfolio, if you want. I had to assemble an informal one very recently.” For the ghost Tezuka, but Tezuka doesn’t need to know that yet.

Tezuka nods. “Kikumaru said you still take pictures.”

“When I can. Site photography is something of an essential to architects.” And he can probably replicate the slideshow he’d made for Tezuka. “You want me to bring you some of them?”

“If you don’t mind.” Tezuka’s tone is neutral, but the interest is clear.

“Not at all.” An idea is beginning to form in his mind, though it may not work in the end. Maybe Tezuka’s memories while he was a disembodied spirit are meant to remain lost. But if he were to revisit the past week with Tezuka, even if Tezuka never regains those memories, maybe _Fuji_ will feel as if he’s reclaimed the experience anyway. “Do I get to choose the restaurant for our dinner?”

“Yes.” A heartbeat later Tezuka adds, “If you want.”

Fuji chuckles. “I want,” he reassures him. “I’ve got a few places I want to visit with you.”

Tezuka considers. “Unless I’m cleared for Davis Cup final, I will be staying in Japan until the end of December.”

Barclays Finals are the last of the tour tournament calendar. Next major tournament event that requires Tezuka’s participation will be Australian Open in January, unless Tezuka chooses to compete in one of the ATP World Tour 250 series first. Fuji nods. “After what happened, you probably need some downtime anyway.”

He can use some downtime too, Fuji thinks. It will be nice if they can share that.

“Fuji.” Tezuka’s voice is more sober, but cautious, not pressing. “Will you ever tell me who took that picture of you?”

So that has been weighing on Tezuka’s mind much more than he expected. Fuji is touched, but resists the temptation to tell him. “I will. Just not right now.”

_Though you might end up guessing the truth before long anyway_ , Fuji thinks, but doesn’t voice the thought.

“In time.” It’s half a question, half a demand.

“In time,” Fuji agrees. “Believe me, I don’t intend to waste any more of it.”

Tezuka’s hand covers his, and Fuji is startled by the warmth and determination illuminating Tezuka’s eyes. “Neither do I.”

This is their second chance, unexpectedly offered, but eagerly accepted. Whether the chance came by fate’s whim or benevolent intervention, Fuji is grateful. He’s learned his lesson. He won’t waste time waiting for an opportune moment. Life is never certain enough to hold out for the one perfect moment that may never come.

Moments are all they have. Together, they will make each one count.

**__**

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tezuka’s favorite projects for architect!Fuji, the grand reveal: Fuji Kindergarten, House to Catch the Forest, and Roof House (Yoshioka Prize winner), all by real-life architect Tezuka Takaharu.
> 
> This story owes much to the K-drama _**[Ju-gun ui Tae-yang (2013)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Master%27s_Sun)**_ , which claims an unusual affection from me, second only to **_[Queen Seon-Deok (2009)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_Seondeok_\(TV_series\))_** which is one of my favorites ever (and also the major impetus for **_Sea of Hidden Dragon_** ). The title of the drama is a Korean pun, which can be read either “Mr. Ju’s Ms. Tae” or “The Master’s (Milord’s) Sun.” Specifically, there are two elements inspired by the drama: a living ghost (a spirit temporarily separated from still-living body due to traumatic/near-death experience) and a photo album which has seemingly empty landscape shots that originally contained a ghost in each scene. Actually, I think ghost-living person kiss scene is yet another. And for reasons I will not bore you with, [“Day and Night” by Gummy](https://youtu.be/DqnGBWAW7wQ), one of the theme songs from this drama, is effectively the theme song of this story as well. I would have credited the drama sooner, but I didn’t want to give away the plot too early. ;)
> 
> I confess, I rushed posting of this story partly because it’s dated, but also partly as a reaction to the beautiful **_[east of the sun, west of the moon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4809959)_** by [fables](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fables/pseuds/fables). FIRST OFF, I LOVE THIS STORY. I actually read it years ago on LiveJournal before it was expanded. I loved it then, and I love it now. It’s just that there was one section in that exquisite story that hit me hard, and I guess I wanted a pleasant fiction, even if a little unrealistic. I think at this point I don’t have the stomach for true angst, at least where TeniPuri is concerned. (This is probably a good thing. ^_~)
> 
> Thank you for reading! And extra special dose of gratitude and love to all those who commented. 
> 
> **[ETA 3/1/2016:]** Added some minor edits throughout the story.


End file.
